


A is for Amour

by SpectralHeart



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Eventual Romance, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, High School, M/M, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo, Pining, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tutoring, Unhealthy Relationships, Updates Monthly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralHeart/pseuds/SpectralHeart
Summary: Twice a week, tenth-grade Patton Foley meets up with his new tutor and fellow student Logan Berry to try and raise his Math and English grades before the end of the term. In return, Patton accidentally teaches Logan all about this crazy thing called love.Meanwhile, Patton’s older brother Roman does not have the perfect life and perfect boyfriend he says he does... but by now, he’s so far in over his head that it’ll take a miracle to get him out. That is, either a miracle, or the next best thing: meeting the incredible (yet insecure) Virgil Xia.---Updates the first day of every month!





	1. Fools Rush In

Patton Foley was not stupid.

At least, that’s what his mother told him as they were driving to his first session with his new tutor. “You’re not stupid, you’re just a slow learner,” Mrs. Dot Foley loved to remind him. She would say it over and over until Patton wanted to scream out,  _ I know, I know I’m a slow learner, I know you’re disappointed, I know you wanted me to be smarter but I’m not, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry that you had to have been stuck with a son who needs to be tutored, I’m sorry, I’m sorry sorry sorry… _

Patton bit his lip and kept his silent apology to himself, turning to look out the window. He had discovered long ago that he didn’t need to be able to see his mother’s face to know how disappointed she was in him. At least when he couldn’t see the deep frown, the worry lines, and the creased eyebrows, it wouldn’t weigh so heavily on his mind.

Yeah, right.

His older brother Roman had been a child prodigy. Roman was creative, talented, intelligent, charming... in other words, Roman was everything that Patton was not. Roman had been reading four grades above his level since he started school. Patton had been stuck struggling through picture books long after his classmates had moved onto the longer stories —  _ “the ones with the chapters,”  _ his friends loved to brag. Roman got straight A’s and had never needed to study a day in his life. Patton could study for months on end and had never once gotten a score higher than a B. Roman had graduated from high school a year early, had already begun to make a name for himself as a young actor, and was dating a handsome young man who he gushed about at every chance he got.

Patton, of course, was still single.

His parents were kind enough to never compare the two of them out loud, but Patton knew they were always silently judging him for not being the genius that Roman had been. “You’re failing two of your classes and you’ve just barely scraped by with the rest,” his father, Larry Foley, had said to him the other day. “Tenth grade shouldn’t be this difficult for you. What’s going on, Patton? Why couldn’t you have just...”

Patton’s father caught himself before he finished his sentence, but there was no need for him to say anything more. Patton filled in the rest of the sentence in his head.  _ Why couldn’t you have just been more like Roman? _

Sometimes, the unfairness of it all got the better of him. He’d take a break from what seemed like an eternity of homework, and he’d just sit — and stare — detached — almost fascinated with the wet spots that bloomed across the table or his blue jeans or perhaps whatever paper he’d been working on. Other times, he might lose his mind and throw his pillows across the room, filled with jealousy and self-loathing.  _ Why  _ couldn’t _ I have been more like Roman? Why did  _ he  _ get to be so perfect? How come  _ he _ got everything?  _ Often, he’d feel like an afterthought; Roman was the main course, and he was the cold leftovers for the day after. The ones that no one wanted.

But of course, it wasn’t Roman’s fault that he was so stu— such a  _ slow learner _ . And Patton knew it wasn’t fair to get so mad at himself, or at his brother. Still, there were times where he felt like he was going to— 

The gentle rocking of the car was interrupted by a sudden jolt as his mother went over a speed bump, shocking Patton back into the present moment. He shook his head a little.  _ Look at me, internally monologuing like this. Roman would be proud.  _ Patton allowed himself to smile. As jealous as he could be of his older brother’s success, Patton loved Roman dearly and tried to think of him less as competition and more as a role model. Roman, to his credit, had never acted like he thought he was superior to his little brother. Patton tried to imagine what Roman might say to him if the latter knew what the former was thinking.  _ It’s time to stop beating yourself up. You’re going to tutoring now, aren’t you? You’re focusing on improving my grades, just like mom and dad always wanted. And I’m sure that you and your tutor are going to get along just great. _

One of the few things that Patton knew he was gifted at was making friends quickly. He pushed his worried thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on that new, more positive mindset instead, repeating it silently, over and over. By the time that his mother reached the library where he was supposed to be meeting his tutor, his negative thoughts from earlier had all but vanished. He leaned over to give his mother a quick peck on the cheek — “Thanks, mom. See you soon, love ya.” — and hopped out of the car, humming to himself.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. Patton pulled it out and played with the little cat ears on his phone case while he read the notification.  _ One new message from mycroft-er-jam.  _ His tutor had just texted him, it seemed.  _ I’m here,  _ the text read. He watched as another message popped up under the first.  _ And you’re late. _

Patton gave a little huff. He was only late by five minutes. “What a jerk,” he mumbled to himself.

The first person Patton laid eyes on after pushing open the library door was a young man in a jacket, with a purple streak running through his messy black hair. He looked to be about Roman’s age. Patton was a little intimidated by the very dark eyeshadow that was smudged under both of his eyes, but seeing no other librarians at the front desk, approached him with a big smile. “Hi!”

The man jumped and quickly flipped his book shut, hiding it under his desk. Patton caught a glimpse of the cover and smiled, seeing a large, prancing unicorn smack-dab in the middle of it.  _ This guy might look scary, but I bet he’s a big ol’ softy, really.  _ His nervousness melted away. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m supposed to meet my tutor here. Do you happen to know where they are?”

“Oh, are you the kid from Sandford SS? You’re here to see Logan?” asked the librarian. Patton nodded. “Over by the non-fiction, right next to the windows.”

Patton looked in the direction that the other pointed towards and caught sight of a large window peeking out over a shelf. “Oh! Thank you so much.” He was about to leave when he thought of something else. “What’s your name, by the way?”

The man in the jacket seemed a little surprised. “Uh... I’m Virgil.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Virgil. I’m Patton. I hope we can be friends.” Patton flashed him another smile before walking away to find his tutor.

The library was a lot bigger than he’d remembered. When was the last time that he had actually willingly read a book? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. The tall maze of shelves seemed to tower over him, and he shuddered to look at some of the thicker books. “Non-fiction, non-fiction, non-fiction... aha!” Patton rounded the corner.

And could swear that he could actually hear his heart explode.

_ Is  _ that  _ my tutor?  _ he panicked. His mouth fell open and his thoughts scattered all over the place. _ He looks so smart. His jawline could probably cut steel! Is he reading four books at once? Who even does that? Oh my goodness, look at his hair. His glasses look so good on him! Why is he wearing a necktie? He must be a really serious person. Only serious people wear neckties, right? He’s so cute. He is so. Flipping. Cute. No, really,  _ how  _ in the  _ world  _ is he reading four books at once? _

Patton wouldn’t have been surprised if what announced his arrival had been the sound of his heart fluttering in his chest. Whatever the case, his tutor suddenly glanced over. Patton jumped guiltily, bumping his elbow against the shelf he was standing next to in the process. Some books fell out and he dropped to his knees, hurrying to re-shelve them and trying to hide his blushing face from this handsome boy who, by the sound of his footsteps, was walking closer and closer...

A confident, clear, no-nonsense voice sounded from above. Patton’s tutor couldn’t have been more than a year older than him, and yet he sounded so mature. “I presume you’re Mr. Foley?”

Patton shoved the last book haphazardly into place and looked up. “Y-yes?” he managed to squeak, scrambling to his feet.  _ He’s so close to me. He’s making eye contact with me. He’s barely a foot away from me. Is it a foot? Or is the right word an inch?  _ More panic. Patton hated math.  _ I can’t remember. Oh my stars, he is  _ so close  _ to me. What do I do? How am I supposed to focus on learning when my tutor is so cute? _

The other young man, of course, was quite oblivious to the internal hysteria rushing through Patton’s thoughts — all he saw was a jumpy, ill-prepared little boy. He gave a small sigh, then held out his hand. Patton stared at it uncomprehendingly for a second before grabbing it with a nervous laugh.

The older boy did not return the smile. He was clearly ready for the session to be over already. Still, he spoke with a tone that was professional and detached, if a little bit patronizing.

“My name is Logan Berry. Let’s get to work.”

And he let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! 
> 
> A is for Amour was my 2018 NaNoWriMo novel. This first chapter that you've just finished reading was the first piece of fanfiction that I ever wrote (outside of an old Undertale thing that I wrote two chapters of and promptly abandoned; that doesn't count :P). I originally intended to get the whole fic finished during NaNo, and then I could go back and edit in the following months, but... yeah, that didn't happen. 50k words only took me halfway through chapter ten. So, yeah, this story's going to be a lot longer than I originally thought, but you know what? I'm super excited to see where it goes! Hopefully, you are too :)
> 
> This chapter was almost entirely based off of a comic by @the-pastel-peach on tumblr, but everything after this is my own work! To read the comic:  
> http://the-pastel-peach.tumblr.com/post/178116531352/the-pastel-peach-me-after-a-thousand


	2. Human Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though rigid schedules may have worked in his favour when it came to essays and science fairs, Logan's plans are ill-equipped to handle a living, breathing human. He finds this out the hard way.

Logan Berry was just about ready to eat his tie.

Not in the literal sense, of course; Logan was very well aware that cloths and fabrics did not have much nutritional value to them. They’d be difficult to digest, for one, and he didn’t imagine the taste could be too appetizing either. The young man had merely been using figurative language to express irritation.

A little clarity never hurt anybody.

Perhaps it would be simpler to forget about the textile consumption and just put it this way: suffice it to say, anyone looking at Logan now would never be able to guess how excited the boy had been only thirty minutes ago. 

Which was a shame, really, considering how rare it was for Logan to get excited about anything nowadays.

It was true, though — Logan had been walking on sunshine for weeks in anticipation of this moment. How could he not? Today was the day of his first-ever session in his new tutoring job; a day he’d spent long days and longer nights preparing for. Logan had even gone so far as to create and rehearse a script that contained everything he intended to say, word-for-word. Every detail he could think of, he had planned, all the way down to the exact outfit he’d wear — a freshly-ironed black polo paired with his best blue necktie was the perfect way to passively say,  _ this young man means business.  _ Knowing how crucial a good first impression would be to their overall success, Logan had done everything in his power to ensure that today’s session would run perfectly. It had taken every second that he could spare (and quite a few that he couldn’t), but he didn’t mind. After all, Logan had been completely convinced that all his efforts were bound to pay off in the end.

Oh, what a fool he’d been.

You see, it was only once Logan was watching this unsettlingly energetic  _ thing  _ come careening around the corner did he realise that in all of his careful planning, he’d forgotten to factor in one major variable: the student himself. And a single glance was all it took for Logan to realise that his mistake would cost him dearly. 

_ Not only is he late, he’s completely out of breath. And he’s not even bothering to hide it… just look at that gaping mouth,  _ Logan’s narrowed eyes had immediately observed.  _ Smudged glasses, uncombed hair, grass-stained sneakers — one of which is untied, mind you — oh, and now he’s gone and sent books flying everywhere.  _

_ So much for first impressions, I suppose.  _

With the introduction of this new limiting factor, the future wasn’t looking too bright, to say the least. But if there was one thing that Logan’s extensive collection of award-winning science fair projects had taught him, it was to never waste time trying to control the uncontrollable. So, notebook clutched in one hand and tenaciously holding back doubts with the other, Logan had launched with great determination into the script that he’d practiced so many times before.

It took all of five minutes to grind that determination into the dust. Every single time he paused for breath, the freckled boy seated crookedly in front of him would take it as an invitation to start chattering away at a speed that would give even the most accomplished of auctioneers a run for their money. Poor Logan could hardly keep up with his student, let alone settle him down long enough to get through even the first paragraph.

Finally, he had been forced to abandon his perfectly-crafted script in favour of a much less elegant approach: a simple and to-the-point list of questions. Though it physically  _ pained  _ Logan to abandon the result of so many tears shed and sleepless nights passed, he’d rather finish things the “alkali way” (or, as the cool kids preferred, the “basic way”) than never finish them at all.  _ And if he’s going to talk anyway,  _ Logan reasoned, _ I might as well give him something  _ productive  _ to talk about. Surely then we’ll be able to stay on-topic. _

No such luck. Logan’s first question got no more than a noncommittal shrug before Parker — or was it Patrick? No, he was quite certain that the boy’s name was Parker — was off again, running his mouth a mile a minute, dropping awful puns and grammatically incorrect sentences all over the previously pristine carpet. The poor librarians would have some cleaning up to do later.

_Okay, so plan B didn’t work either._ _Nothing to worry about, though,_ Logan pretended to believe. _I’ve still got twenty-four letters to get through._

To be fair, Plan C was really more of a coping mechanism than an actual step-by-step plan. A surprisingly effective way of releasing pent-up stress and frustration, this longtime favourite involved imagining, in vivid detail, the source of that frustration being slowly and painfully fed into a running wood chipper. 

What?

Some might think this cruel. Logan preferred to call it merciful; after all, at least he was limiting his vengeance to the hypothetical realm. An added bonus was that, in the interest of ensuring the utmost accuracy, it had compelled him to familiarize himself with the inner workings of wood chippers. So really, Plan C was a win-win for all parties involved.

As you might have guessed by now, dealing with annoying people never really had been Logan’s strong suit.

Actually, make that dealing with people in general. In hindsight, signing up to work with Sandford Secondary’s peer-to-peer tutoring program had definitely _not_ been the best idea he’d ever had, in that case. Not because he wasn’t qualified — complex formulas and sentence structure he could handle in his sleep. But teaching those same concepts to a student who apparently had no intention of listening, he most certainly could not.

Really, Logan should have known better than to believe that he could ever be successful in  _ any _ job that depended so much on one’s ability to work with others. Why couldn’t he have chosen something with more facts and numbers? 

Facts and numbers were predictable. They always fit neatly into categories of right or wrong, true or false, black or white. Social interaction was so much messier. With no structure, no set of rules, and no procedure to follow, the whole thing was really nothing more than haphazard guesswork, a real-life game of hangman where every wrong word brings you one pen-stroke closer to game over. Bearing all that in mind, Logan had never understood how some people could so easily waltz up to strangers and just begin “bonding” like it was nothing.

And frankly, he didn’t particularly  _ want _ to understand. Why would anyone choose to while away their life building those fragile houses of cards;  _ vocabulary  _ cards filled with only empty words? Did no one realise that a single misplaced breath is all would take to knock everything down in an instant? Why waste time trying desperately to convince your peers that you’re worth their love, when you could instead be hard at work earning their  _ respect? _ In Logan’s experience, relationships of any kind — romantic, platonic, even familial — were always sloppy at best when built on love. Respect, on the other hand… respect was  _ real. _

This attitude, by the way, was an entirely objective worldview that had nothing to do with the fact that Logan didn’t exactly have many romantic or platonic relationships to choose from. Correlation, not causation. 

Besides. Not that he cared.

Taking a deep breath, Logan forced himself to focus back on the session.  _ (That makes one of us,  _ he couldn’t help thinking.) Speaking of empty words… Parker, or Patrick, or whatever-his-name-was, had somehow been ceaselessly talking about corn for —  Logan checked his watch — over seven minutes now. They were getting nowhere, fast. 

If Logan allowed the boy to keep this up, the two of them would end up leaving the library having accomplished absolutely nothing at all. That simply would  _ not  _ do. His student’s attitude may not be ideal, but he’d be damned if he let his own standards slip because of it. 

After taking a brief pause to collect himself and his thoughts, Logan stood abruptly, causing the freckled boy to cut himself off mid-sentence.

Slowly, deliberately, he moved to stare out the large windows framing the section of the library where the two of them were seated, so that his back was turned and his face was hidden from the other boy. 

Then, voice dripping with contempt, he spoke.

“Let me make one thing clear.  _ I am not here to make friends, and neither should you be. _ I am here to teach, and as of yesterday, I was under the impression that you are here to learn. However, your behaviour so far has led me to believe that perhaps I was mistaken. For once in my life, I find myself praying that I will be proven wrong. 

“Now, I don’t know what kind of merry tomfoolery you were expecting from our session today, but I do know exactly what _ I  _ was expecting, and exactly what _ I _ have prepared for you. And since you clearly do not seem interested in steering this session anywhere productive, I suggest that you hand the reins to me and do exactly as _ I  _ instruct from here on out. I have prepared a rigid agenda for how we will be spending this time together, and I intend to follow it. I expect you to do the same. Be aware that this agenda includes absolutely  _ no  _ icebreakers; we can’t afford to waste any more of our valuable lesson time, especially not on childish games. 

“Starting right now, you will answer my questions so I can develop a plan for what we need to accomplish, and you will answer them without distraction. When you are not answering questions, you will hold your tongue like your entire future depends on it. Because it very well might. Is that understood —” just in time, he suddenly remembered the boy’s name — “is that understood, Patton?”

The following moment of quiet, the first one since Patton had stepped foot in the library, was answer enough for Logan.

“Good. I trust this will not be a discussion that we will need to have again, then.”

With that, Logan returned to his seat, carefully scrutinizing Patton once more to see if he could spot any differences. He didn’t need to try too hard. Patton’s transformation was so drastic, it was almost…  

Unnerving. The vigor from earlier had all but disappeared — thank goodness — but with its departure came a distinct dullness to the eyes framed in those round-rimmed glasses. And where Patton had previously been nearly falling out of his seat with barely contained energy, he now slumped inwards as if the words that Logan had spoken were actually physically crushing him. 

At the sight, Logan couldn’t help but feel the tiniest glimmer of guilt. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to lay the scolding on quite so heavily.  _ What if I overdid it? _

A second later, Logan remembered he didn’t care. 

_ Excellent. This shall be ideal.  _ The brief moment of weakness over, Logan settled back down into the library’s comfortable couch. “What are your academic strengths?” he read off his notebook.

“Uhh, I’m… nice, sometimes. I guess.”  __

Logan let out a deep sigh. A wood-chipper-shaped silhouette flickered in the back of his mind.

Most likely seeing his teacher’s disapproval of the vague answer, Patton hurried to add, “I mean, I can be pretty patient when it comes to worksheets. It always takes a really long time for me to finish my homework, so I… kind of have to be, you know?”

“Hm. Is that it?”

“That’s all I can come up with right now. Um, sorry.”

“I see.” Pencil scratched across paper as Logan scribbled down (a paraphrased version of) Patton’s response. In the otherwise unbroken silence, the sound grated loudly against Logan’s ears. He hurried to finish so he could move on to the next question. “Academic weaknesses?”

This time, Patton’s answered without even a moment’s hesitation. “Focus. Organization. Time management. Anything related to math or numbers, really. I’m not good at taking risks. My work is always sloppy and hard to read. It takes me a long time to wrap my head around new concepts.” He rattled off one item after another, a strange mix of confidence and detachment, almost as if reading off an invisible script that he’d already recited — or heard recited to him — many times before.

Logan wasn’t sure what to say to that. Here was another reason he hated socialising; people always had this odd tendency to hyper-fixate on what needed to be fixed rather than what they already had going for them, a tendency that Logan couldn’t imagine was healthy or even at all helpful.  _ There’s so much beauty mixed in with the bad, and yet you choose to ignore it all?  _ Worst of all, these senseless “social blinkers” meant that Logan had no chance of getting an accurate idea of Patton’s actual strengths and weaknesses. There was no way that every item on that list of shortcomings that Patton had just blazed through could actually apply, right?

Logan decided not to push the question, though; experience had taught him that calling others out on their poor logic didn’t often end well.  _ I’ll just have to figure that part out myself, I suppose.  _ Instead, he adjusted his thick glasses, wrote down one or two items from Patton’s list of weaknesses, and read aloud the next question. 

And the next, and the next. They were really tearing through the conversation now; Patton’s answers seemed to get shorter and more succinct with every second that passed. Not that Logan was complaining. In fact, he was nothing but grateful for Patton’s newfound intense focus. It seemed his brief speech had done the trick. 

Sooner than expected, a quiet trill interrupted the two of them. He checked his phone to see that his alarm had gone off. The session was over. 

Had it really been two hours already? It had felt like so much less than that. 

Shutting off the alarm, Logan turned to face his student. “Well, that marks the end of our session. I… appreciated your cooperation, Patton. We may have gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, but your focus in the second half of the session was sufficient to convince me that we won’t have too many problems from here on out.”

This time, Patton said nothing at all, settling instead for a wordless nod. 

“Next week, I will have worksheets prepared for you. In the meantime, your homework is to write me a page, single-spaced, telling me a little bit more about short-and long-term educational goals. Full sentences only, please.” Logan flipped his notebook shut. “I look forward to reading your writing for the first time,” he lied.

In response, Patton picked up his backpack and started to walk away. He only made it about three steps, though, before turning back and opening his mouth. Logan waited.

The words never came. After the briefest of pauses, Patton’s mouth closed, lips pressed firmly together, perhaps to suppress whatever he’d been wanting to say.

As watched the child disappear around the corner, a thought arose unbidden:

For some reason, Patton seemed so much smaller leaving the library than he had looked when he was entering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Even though it's only chapter two, I have a LOT to say. Most of this is about the fic in general rather than the chapter, so... it's LONG. I'm sorry. In the interest of not putting you to sleep, let's speed-round this.
> 
> \- The first chapter of AAmour was the very first thing I ever wrote for the Sanders Sides fandom. I based that chapter almost ENTIRELY on a oneshot comic by @the-pastel-peach on tumblr (I linked it at the end, don't worry). Then, even though I always intended for this to be a chaptered fic, I basically abandoned it for a while.
> 
> \- Two months later, I was planning for NaNoWriMo 2018 (a challenge where authors write 50k in 30 days). Long story short, I decided that I'd like to try finishing AAmour.
> 
> \- I didn't.
> 
> \- I did hit 50k, but I only made it to chapter ten. I still want to finish this thing though, so I've decided to edit and post what I already wrote, one chapter a month, and then write the second half of AAmour during NaNoWriMo 2019. 
> 
> \- Almost everything after chapter one is my own work. I say "almost" because I picked @residentanchor's brain a lot during the planning phase.
> 
> \- So yes, I may still be writing a high school AU, but this is no longer @the-pastel-peach's high school AU. Besides Logan's last name and the first chapter, any similarities to their version of the AU are completely coincidental; in fact, I've barely looked at theirs because I didn't want to risk any subconscious copying.
> 
> \- I'm already late with this first chapter because my dumb brain decided I needed to do a complete rewrite a week before posting, but in the future I'd like to post a chapter on the first day of every month.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading (both the chapter and my ridiculously long author's note)!! Take care, lovelies. See you soon!!


	3. Home Again, Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman lives with his boyfriend most of the time, but comes back to visit his family every other weekend. Of the two houses, only one is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings:  
> \- pain/injury mention  
> \- argument mention  
> \- food mention  
> \- sleeplessness/insomnia  
> \- general negative emotions  
> \- toxic/abusive relationships -- specifically, roman and a character who was originally supposed to be deceit when i first started planning this story way back when. i don't know if monet is really deceit anymore, but if you're not a fan of abusive deceit then i'd say maybe steer clear of this fic just to be on the safe side. <3

Roman Foley had to actively restrain himself from slamming his car door as he headed towards the front porch of the house where he’d grown up.

It wasn’t that Roman wasn’t happy to be home; quite the opposite, in fact. There were few things more important to him than his biweekly visits — as anyone who had ever met Roman could confirm, the young man talked about his family _very_ fondly, and _very_ often. (To be fair, the entire Foley family tended to talk very often in general.)

It was because of Monet, you see.

Well, no — that wasn’t entirely true. Granted, Roman’s boyfriend was a large part of the reason that Roman’s teeth were gritted and his fists were clenched, but it wasn’t fair to put _all_ of the blame on the lovely Monet Triche. They had only started arguing earlier that day because of how much Monet cared, and Roman could hardly get upset about having a caring significant other in his life, after all.

Still, it was getting to be absolutely exhausting, having to tell Monet the exact same things over and over and over again every single time he wanted to visit home. It didn’t make sense. Monet knew perfectly well that Roman visited his family every other weekend! He’d been doing so ever since his first year of college, long before he and Monet had met, or fallen in love, or moved in together. Rain or shine, snow or hail, no matter the workload, Roman would always set aside time for the ones who’d raised him.

And rain or shine, snow or hail, no matter how many times Roman had repeated himself, Monet would somehow always take it as a personal attack whenever Roman wanted to spend time with anyone else. It was really getting on Roman’s nerves, having to constantly explain the same things every time the subject came up: _It’s only going to be for two days / I just want to spend time with my family / I’ve got a life outside of our relationship, too, you know / No, no, I didn’t mean it like that / I’m not trying to imply that I don’t need you in my life / I just have other things that matter too / Of course, I’m not replacing you / I could never replace you / You’re all I need / Nothing matters to me more than you do…_

Sometimes, Roman felt almost like a broken record; stuck in a loop, only capable of repeating variations of the same phrase. He’d tried changing the music, once. The experience had taught him to never try it again. It was so much easier to just stick to what was safe. The truth was, Roman knew that his boyfriend’s anger was simply unavoidable. Rather than wasting his time trying to prevent it, he might as well focus on the next best thing: pacifying Monet as quickly as possible.

To tell the truth, his reasons for wanting to keep Monet happy were a little selfish. Roman just couldn’t stand knowing that someone was mad at him. Especially when the _someone_ in question was as near and dear to Roman’s heart as his boyfriend was. Monet was too kind, too caring, too considerate, too perfect. The idea of upsetting him was positively sickening to Roman.

And yet.

As much as he’d like to pretend that today had only been a fluke, the truth of the matter was that the two of them were fighting. more than ever lately. No matter how hard he tried, Roman was always slipping up, always saying or doing the wrong thing. Throw Roman’s short temper into the mix, and, well… it wasn’t hard to see where all the bickering was coming from.

Had today’s argument been his fault, then? Maybe. Probably. After all, the past two or ten or so had all been his fault. Why not this one too?

Without warning, a stab of pain jarred Roman back into the present. He glanced down to see his hand curled into a fist, fingers clenched so tight his knuckles were turning paper-white. _Ouch._

Rubbing at the four little half-moon indents his nails had left, Roman forced all thoughts of Monet out of his head. _What’s done is done,_ he reminded himself. The conversation was done and over with; now he was at last where he was meant to be. Where he _wanted_ to be. Where his mother’s joyful laugh and his father’s steady arms and his brother’s bright eyes lived.

Roman’s keys jingled merrily as he unlocked the front door of his home.

He barely managed to set a foot inside before Patton came flying down the stairs, barrelling right into his chest. Fortunately, Roman had been ready for this — intentional or not, his younger brother always greeted him the same way — so instead of losing his balance, he shut the door behind him and swung Patton around in a tight hug, all in one fluid motion.

“Good to see you too, Pat,” Roman laughed as he gently let his brother down. “I’ve only been gone for two weeks, you know. Like always.”

“Yeah, but that’s two weeks too many! I always miss you so much when you’re on campus. Why can’t you just come back to live with us again?”

An eyebrow went up. “This again? You know exactly why, Patton.”

“Yeah, yeah, the house that you and Mr. Perfect live in is closer to J. M. Stokes College than our place is. It’s just…” Patton sighed. “It’s been so long since you moved out, and I know that means I should probably be used to it by now, but the house still feels so empty all the time without you around! I was just being silly, though. Obviously, I’d never _actually_ ask you to leave Monet. It’s really easy to see how much you two care about each other.”

_Easy to see how much we care about each other, huh? Might want to get those glasses checked, little brother._

No sooner than the thought slipped out, Roman stiffened. _Where did that come from?_ He and Monet _did_ care about each other. They were just going through a bit of turbulence, is all. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing that his family needed to know, either; especially with how overprotective his parents could sometimes get, Roman figured it was better to avoid raising unnecessary concerns. He and his boyfriend could work their relationship out on their own.

Roman managed a smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Patton.” He knew even as the words were leaving his mouth that they didn’t sound quite right; something in his voice felt crooked, bent, unnatural. And judging by the way that Patton’s face subtly twisted, his little brother had picked up on it too. Roman’s smile fell away as he started desperately praying that Patton wouldn’t ask about —

“Roman, is there something wrong?”

 _Shoot._ Roman’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as he frantically cast about for an excuse. He came up empty. _Shoot, shoot, shoot!_ Now was _not_ the time to be drawing a blank! It wasn’t like he could just tell Patton that he’d fought with Monet; one thing would lead to another, and then before he knew it his family would be asking him all sorts of hard-to-deflect questions. But what else could he say?

Just as he was starting to panic, two familiar faces appeared from around the corner, and the relief that crashed into him felt almost tangible. “Mom! Dad!” he called out, smiling genuinely this time.

“Good to see you, Roman.” Dot and Larry Foley greeted their eldest boy with a hug (albeit much tamer than the one he had given to Patton a moment ago) before hustling both sons further into the house, tutting about the cold weather and Patton being underdressed and Roman needing to wash his hands. Grateful for the distraction, Roman was more than happy to oblige.

***

Warm water slipped between his fingers, sending heavily-scented suds spiraling down the drain. The small room was completely filled with the smell of bilberry-and-thyme soap he’d been using, so intense that Roman was almost feeling a little lightheaded. His family was still awfully fond of their scented stuff, apparently.

 _(Oh well, it could be worse. At least they’ve moved on from their floral phase._ Roman shuddered, remembering the days when every single toiletry they owned came from this fancy yellow-tulip pack that Patton had adored, but Roman had _detested._ That phase had lasted his family at least a solid year and a half. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a power on Earth that could convince him to go back to that awful time.)

Inspecting his palms, Roman was glad to see that the little crescent marks made by his fingernails had disappeared. He found himself hoping that perhaps he’d been mistaken; perhaps, Patton hadn’t _really_ noticed Roman’s odd behaviour after Monet had been brought up.

It was a foolish hope, of course — Patton’s quick, emotionally-attuned mind could catch even the slightest shift in mood — but that didn’t stop Roman from hoping nonetheless. He just didn’t have the energy to lie to anyone else.

 _Fortune favours the beautiful_ , he’d once heard someone say. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, all rich red-brown hair and dark eyes and sharp features, Roman had his fingers crossed that those words might turn out to be true. He’d need all the fortune he could get over the next two days.

***

“So how’s _Into the Woods_ going?” Dot asked as soon as the four of them sat down for dinner. It had already been a few weeks since rehearsals had begun, but his mother and father were still just as excited about the production as they had been way back when Roman was first cast as Cinderella’s Prince.

Roman answered her between bites. Rehearsals had been going fantastically well. In fact, only a few days ago, Roman became the first and only actor to be off-book. The young lady directing their musical production had been very pleased at his dedication — a fact that she didn’t hesitate to make clear. She had held Roman up as an example to the rest of the actors, saying that the others all ought to be off-book as soon as he was. He’d pretended to be embarrassed, of course, but really he’d been having a blast gobbling up all of the praise.

What had been less fun was when his director decided that, since Roman was off-book, she was going to take away his script entirely until the show was over. This information had not sat well with the rest of the cast, who weren’t exactly keen on the promise of seeing their scripts disappear into the director’s Black Backpack of Doom (as they all fondly referred to it) as well.

“It took me a dozen donuts to convince her to give it back,” Roman finished. As his family laughed, he felt himself starting to relax a little bit. “That reminds me of something that happened just the other day, in fact. At the end of one of our recent rehearsals, our Baker came up to me and said...”

Gesturing animatedly, Roman began a new story. And then another one, and another, and another. He talked about missed cues and flubbed lines and wet paint and high notes, about anything and everything he could come up with.

Truthfully, though it may have seemed like Roman was only babbling on because of how much he loved the sound of his own voice, there was more to it this time. He was only telling so many stories in a desperate attempt to keep his family interested in the topic at hand. The last thing he wanted was for them to get bored and switch to something else (read: Monet).

As Roman finished talking about a dance number gone wrong, he could feel his mind racing, struggling to come up with something else to say. His plate was almost empty. He only needed one more anecdote to see him through to the end of the meal. But nothing was coming to mind. _Think, Roman, think!_

Larry Foley cleared his throat, leaning forward. At the sound, Roman’s heart sank into his shoes. That was a sure sign that his father was about to change the subject.

He had to say _something._ As a last-ditch attempt, Roman turned to address his brother. “So — uh — Patton — how was your first week back at school? You missing the winter break yet?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman could see his father slowly settling back. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. _Safe._

Meanwhile, Patton poked at his food, refusing to meet Roman’s eyes as he replied. “About as bad as you’d think. Turns out, a couple weeks away from Mr. Mitchell wasn’t enough to get him to get off of my back a little bit.”

Roman made a face. “Dragon Witchell still getting you down?”

“Yeah, but it’s whatever. Same old same old. I’m pretty much used to it by now.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” their mother chimed in.“Patton just had his first tutoring session yesterday!”

Roman perked up. “Oh, that’s _marvelous_ news! How come you didn’t tell me that you were starting tutoring, Pat?”

“Didn’t want to bug you,” Patton shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“But really, how _has_ that been going for you, Pat?” said their father. “You didn’t give your old man to many details yesterday, you know.”

“Just gave us the whole _leave me alone, I’ve got homework due tomorrow_ speech and bolted.” their mother explained to Roman. “You know the one. You used it more than a few times yourself when you were in high school. Anyway, we left him alone since we knew that you’d be able to get all the _juicy gossip_ out of him today.”

Roman didn’t know what to say to that. On one hand, he didn’t want to pressure his brother into sharing details if Patton wasn’t ready yet. On the other… he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t even a little curious.

Luckily, he ended up not needing to say anything at all. Patton spoke up instead. “First of all, quit saying things like _juicy gossip,_ mom. It doesn’t actually make you sound cool. You have _got_ to stop listening to everything your students tell you. Second, the reason I didn’t tell you anything is because there’s really nothing _to_ tell. The session went exactly the way we were expecting; I showed up at the library, the guy introduced himself and asked me a couple of questions, I left. Just like I already told you — I got to meet the guy who’s going to make me smarter, and that’s it.”

Their mother gave Patton a stern look. He flinched.

“Sorry. Um, I got to meet the guy who’s going to fix my marks. Is that better?”

Apparently not. Dot wasn’t satisfied yet. “That’s not the point of these sessions, Patton. He’s not ‘going to fix your marks’, or fix you, or _anything_. Your tutor — what was his name again, Larry?”

“Logan Berry,” their father supplied.

“Right, thank you — your tutor Logan is just going to work through your homework with you and sometimes give you some questions to solve. It’s really just extra review for what you’re covering in class. Nothing about you needs to be _fixed_ , all right?”

“Okay. Yeah. You got it.” With that, Patton hurriedly shoved his last forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, then got to his feet before he was even finished chewing. The wooden legs of his chair scraped loudly against the ground. They all cringed in unison.

“Patton!”

“Sorry, mom!” Swallowing, Patton grabbed his plate to carry it over to their kitchen sink. “Did you want me to wash the dishes today?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes, thank you, love.” Roman’s mother lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially, muttering across the table to her older son. “I just know there’s something he’s not telling us. And if anyone can figure out what that something is, it’s you.”

“I can still hear you, mom!” called Patton from the other room, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“No, you can’t, sweetie.”

Patton’s only response was to turn the kitchen tap on at full blast, very conveniently drowning out the conversation between Roman and his mother.

Despite the loud water, though, Roman never was one to pass up an opportunity to put on a performance. Matching his mother’s dramatics gesture for gesture, he glanced exaggeratedly around him before replying in an equally hushed stage whisper. “I mean, I’m curious too, mom, but I don’t think that Patton could be hiding anything important. They’ve only just started, haven’t they? What secrets could he possibly be keeping? So, as flattered as I am that you have this much faith in my — admittedly impressive — detective skills… I think that if he doesn’t want to talk about it, we ought to respect that choice.”

Dot sighed dramatically. “You’re right. Goodness gracious, why do you have to be so mature, Roman, really? You’re making your mother look bad!”

Swallowing his last bite of dinner, Roman grinned. “You could never look bad, mom. I promise you, you’re the most beautiful woman I will ever know. Beyonce’s got nothing on you.” He punctuated his statement by grabbing his now-empty plate and getting up to give his mother a kiss on the cheek.

“Roman, you stop that!” laughed his mother, giving him a good-natured shove. “Oh, you’re just so darn _cute_ , I can’t handle it. Go help your brother with the dishes.”

“Sorry, I just can’t help it. My natural charm waits for no one _,_ ” Roman joked in response before obediently turning away. With his back to his mother, Roman waited until he was nearly into the kitchen before finally allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

 _I made it!_ he cheered silently, a smile stretching from cheek to rosy cheek. _Dinner’s over, and not_ once _did anyone mention —_

“Yes, well, save that charm for your boyfriend, why don’t you?”

_…Monet._

Roman forced his feet to keep moving, praying that his mother wouldn’t notice the way that his shoulders immediately tensed up.

***

_2:06 am. 2:07 am. 2:08 am._

Roman lay still, staring at the blinking numbers on his bedside clock. He’d tried everything he could think of to fall asleep, but a nice cup of calming tea, a warm shower, and at least fifty-six quadrillion tosses and turns later, his eyelids were still refusing to grow heavy.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get his boyfriend’s disappointed face out of his mind.

The fact was that their argument from earlier was still weighing heavily on him. But something wasn’t adding up. For one, who was he even mad at? For most of the day, he’d thought the answer was obvious — Monet, of course. Now he wasn’t so sure.

With every second that ticked by, it became clearer and clearer that Roman wasn’t getting any sleep tonight. If that was the case, he might as well try to work apart this tangled knot that was growing in his mind.

Roman began by asking himself a simple question, figuring he could work his way up to answering some harder ones once he’d laid down a foundation of facts. Silently, his lips formed words: _how are you feeling?_

That was easy. Angry. No, guilty. No, bitter. No, jealous. No, confused. No —

Perhaps this question wasn’t as easy as he’d thought.

Roman lay in the dark, struggling to figure out the right word to describe how he was feeling. Nothing was coming to him. Why was this so difficult?

He pondered. By his head, numbers blinked. Slowly, gently, Roman blinked too.

***

Roman’s bedroom window was ablaze.

Delicate fingers of frost curled across the glass, illuminated by golden ribbons of sun. Millions of tiny rainbows were scattered across his carpet, a dazzling light show the result of the sun hitting the window just right. The vision was breathtaking, otherworldly...

And entirely unwelcome.

Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Roman wondered, not for the first time, why he always seemed to wake up _just_ when the sun was at its brightest.

Oh, well. At least he was awake. He wasn’t completely sure at what time he’d fallen asleep last night, but even it had only been for an hour or so, the short rest had worked wonders.

Surrendering to the bright sunlight, Roman rose out of bed with a yawn and luxuriating stretch. He had to admit that things seemed a lot better in the morning. _Today,_ he decided, _I’m just going to forget about Monet. I can figure out what I’m going to do about him when I get back to campus in the evening. I only get to see my family every other week — there’s no way I’m spending the entire visit too caught up in my own life to enjoy the limited time I have in theirs._

The unmistakable smell of bacon frying greeted him as he made his way down the stairs, pulling his shirt on as he went. Roman inhaled deeply. When he let his breath back out again, he could feel the last traces of negativity from the night before escaping with it. It was impossible to be upset with bacon on the grill.

“Good morning, world!” he sang out — literally — as he turned into the kitchen, making a show of closing his eyes and wafting his hand under his nose. “Mmm. That smells downright delectable, dad.”

“Breaking out the alliteration already, are we? Someone’s in a good mood today,” said his father, giving him an affectionate pat on the back. Loading a plate with a few pieces of bacon plus a slice of toast, Roman turned to make his way towards the wooden table, where his brother was already halfway through a slice of his own. (His mother was still asleep, of course; she never got up before noon if she could help it.)

“Morning, Roman!” Patton said around a mouthful of breakfast. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

It took a second for Roman to realize the full implications of his brother’s words. He froze.

Briefly. Then, he remembered his morning resolution — _no worrying allowed, least of all about Monet._ Holding tightly to that thought, Roman started to move again. As he reached for a jar of Crofter’s, he asked, as nonchalantly as possible: “Why, whatever do you mean?” The Crofter’s kept evading his fingers, just barely out of reach.

His brother passed him the jar. “Well, it seemed like something was getting you down yesterday, but I didn’t wanna ask. Sorry, should I have not brought this up?”

Gesturing with the spoon he was using to spread jam, Roman breezily waved off his brother’s concerns. “Never fear, Patton, I’ve just been stressed out of my mind about schoolwork lately. Have I told you yet about the _colossal_ paper I need to write for Theatre History 201?” When a shake of Patton’s head indicated that he hadn’t, Roman launched into an explanation about the difficult assignment, playing it up to be the only thing that had caused his strange behaviour yesterday.

Their father sat down next to them about midway through Roman’s spiel, coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other. “Sounds stressful,” he commented once Roman was finished, before promptly adding, “but I’m sure you’ll do perfect, as always. I wouldn’t expect my clever boy to ever settle for anything less.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Roman replied, chewing. “But I can’t help but worry all the same. It’s an important paper.”

“Don’t be silly, Roman. I know you. You have nothing to worry about.” Roman couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable at the finality of the words — what if his father was wrong, and Roman ended up letting him down?

That said… it _was_ true that Roman had a history of perfect scores. His father was probably right; important or not, this paper would become nothing more than another item to add to that list, in the end.

“Thanks, dad.”

“Anytime, pal.” Satisfied, Larry Foley stood with a yawn, peering into his now-empty coffee mug before heading back into the kitchen, presumably to fill it back up again. Roman didn’t miss the meaningful look that their father threw at Patton on his way out, though the meaning was lost on Roman.

Patton seemed to understand it well enough, however.

Roman noted his brother’s angled eyebrows, drooping shoulders, pursed lips. Being an actor had its perks; for one, the subtleties of body language hardly seemed subtle at all to Roman’s trained eyes. But at the moment, he couldn’t help but wish away that particular skill. Watching Patton get sad was like watching a puppy cry. And oh, Roman did _not_ want to think about puppies crying.

He hastened to change the subject before he could be attacked by any more distressing dog visuals. Roman waited until his father was completely out of the room, then spoke quietly. “Patton, I told mom last night to leave you be, but I have to admit I’m still curious about the whole tutoring thing. I mean, maybe there’s nothing to talk about in terms of the whole boring words-and-numbers-and-teaching part, but… how are you liking the actual _person_ tutoring you? I think mom said his name is Logan, right?” His brother’s face changed, almost imperceptibly, at the mention of his tutor’s name. _Aha!_ Encouraged by this apparent success, Roman pushed on. “Don’t get me wrong, I completely get it if, for any reason at all, you’d rather not talk about that guy right now. But I know you, Pat, and I know when you’re hiding something. If you so choose to share that something with me, I promise you I won’t tell anyone else.” He grinned. “Prince’s honour.”

Patton hesitated, and Roman could see the cogs turning behind his brother’s eyes. He held his breath.

Then, at last: “Roman, it’s… it’s nothing serious, honestly. I think you’re making this whole thing a lot more intense and dramatic than it needs to be.” Patton huffed out a breathy half-laugh. “I just didn’t really want to say this in front of mom and dad, but the truth is —”

“Hey, I’m gonna stop you right there.” Roman’s gaze slid from Patton’s face to the doorway behind Patton, where their father stood, newspaper comically close to his face and coffee mug nowhere in sight. “Dad, for all the directing work you do, you’d think that you would have picked up at least _some_ acting skills by now. You’re trying _way_ too hard to pretend that you’re not listening.”

Larry lowered his newspaper, flustered, trying (and miserably failing) to paste an innocent expression onto his face. “What? I’m — I’m not eavesdropping! I’m just waiting for the coffee to finish brewing!”

“You had a completely full carafe when I came downstairs twenty minutes ago and you’ve only had one mug of coffee since then,” replied Roman. He adopted a thick British accent. _“_ Elementary, my dear dad.”

“Alright, fine.” Recognizing that he had been defeated, their father was forced to give up. “Sorry, kiddos. I’ll give you two some privacy.”

As their father retreated back into the kitchen — for real this time — Patton couldn’t help but giggle at the good-natured banter. Roman was grateful to see how much more relaxed his brother seemed now. He pushed his plate aside to rest his elbows on the table. “Okay, so my interest is piqued. Lay it on me, Pat.” An almost-wicked smile suddenly split across his face. “I want to hear all the _juicy gossip_ you can spare.”

Patton drew in a deep breath. Opened his mouth, closed it again, stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth to stall for time. Roman waited patiently.

Then, swallowing hard, Patton finally managed to squeak out, “Logan is, um… he’s kinda cute _._ ”

“Oh?” Roman’s eyebrows raised. _“Kinda cute_ , is he now?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, he’s _really_ cute. I was expecting some grumpy guy in a hoodie or something! Not someone like _Logan._ ” Patton didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Like, tall, handsome, with swoopy hair and shiny eyes that I could _swim_ in. The whole package.” One fluttered uncertainly at his chest while the other ran through his hair, almost exasperated. “He — he wore a tie to our first meeting!”

By the time he was finished speaking, Roman’s eyes were alight with a shine that could rival even the brightest of gems, and his teasing tones were just as bright. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush. Never fear, you’re looking at the best wingman the world has ever seen. You need me to play matchmaker? I’ll put Cupid to shame, just you wait!”

But Patton shook his head. “No! Stop it! He’s _way_ out of my league. And besides, even if he wasn’t… after all the rambling I did last night, I’m surprised he’s even letting me come back next week.” He pretended to fiddle with his glasses in an effort to hide his blush. (It didn’t work.) “I got, um, really nervous when I saw him, and you know what happens when I get nervous. He literally had to give me a five-minute speech about how desperately I needed to shut up.” Patton chuckled, until he realized his brother wasn’t chuckling with him. “Seriously, it’s okay! I wasn’t exactly going to tutoring so I could make ou — uh, friends. So I could make friends. I’m just there to learn, and he seems like he’s going to be a really awesome teacher. Please, don’t be worried.”

Though Roman still wasn’t convinced, he knew how to take a hint. His brother was through with the subject. Reluctantly, he said, “Well, I guess if your mind's made up, then… that’s that. But Patton, I’m sure that this whole situation isn’t as bad as you think. No one could ever _not_ like you. It’s impossible.”

“Well, what about Mr. Mitchell? He hates me.”

“No one whose opinion is actually _valid_ ,” Roman amended without missing a beat. “Dragon Witchell is nothing but a massive jerk. He doesn’t count.”

“Roman, you can’t say that! That’s not nice!” The words probably would have been more convincing if Patton hadn’t been laughing while he said them.

“That doesn’t make it any less true!” The tension from earlier quickly disappearing, Roman found himself able to breathe easy again now that the great crying puppy threat of 2019 had been averted. Sitting on either side of their familiar table, wood worn smooth from years of love, Roman and his brother were for a moment completely at peace as they laughed and joked about school — about work — and about everything in between.

***

The rest of the day came and went much faster than Roman anticipated. He and Patton had gone their separate ways not too long after breakfast was over, him retreating into his room while Patton settled himself down at the small desk near their house’s front door. He’d been keeping himself busy since then, only venturing out of his room every so often to grab a snack or use the washroom. Then, all too soon, his curtains were drawn and he was reaching to turn on his desk lamp. It seemed almost like he’d only managed a breath or two before the sky was suddenly painted over with shades of inky black.

Roman’s laptop slid into its bedazzled sleeve. His clothes, neatly folded, went into his bag, which was then slung over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. “I’m heading back now, okay?”

Patton immediately abandoned his worksheet to run over and give his older brother a hug. “Bye, Roman!” he said. Roman gave him a quick but firm squeeze.

“See you soon, love,” called his mother from the dining room, where she and her husband were engaged in an intense battle of cards. “Go Fish, Larry. Ha! Take that!”

Smiling fondly, Roman stepped outside.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft _click._ The instant he heard that sound, he could feel his whole body deflate.

Frankly, he wasn’t quite ready to go back to the house that he and Monet shared.

 _It’s not even that I’m still mad at him,_ reflected Roman as he settled into his black car. He turned the key and it sputtered to life. Somehow, the sound was at once familiar and foreign. This car used to belong to his parents. It was even older than Roman himself. It should feel anything _but_ foreign.

And yet, things always looked so different from the driver’s seat.

But then the speakers came on — _Best of Broadway; Vol. 3_ — and everything was alright again. Coasting on down the familiar streets of Sandford, fingers drumming out a beat on the steering wheel, Roman finally let his mind wander free.

_I’m just…_

He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d figured it out, but somewhere between learning about Patton’s crush-that-was-not-a-crush and finishing up neglected schoolwork, Roman had realized that Monet had never been to blame for their argument. It was hardly a bad thing that Monet wanted to spend as much time as possible by his side. Roman had overreacted, plain and simple.

And therein was where the problem lay. This time, _Roman_ was the one at fault; he should have spent the weekend figuring out how he would apologize. But instead, he’d been moping about, feeling sorry for himself, distracting himself with idle tasks, all to avoid thinking about the person who cared about him perhaps more than anyone else in the world.

 _I’m just ashamed of how_ I _handled everything._

With every second that ticked past, Roman grew more and more restless. He was slowly but surely getting closer to the very same house he’d angrily stormed out of two days ago, meaning he was getting closer and closer to having to face the man he’d hurt. He didn’t mind needing to swallow his pride and apologise; that had never been a problem. No, the gnawing in his chest was from the worry that his apology might not be accepted.

The further he drove, the more restless Roman grew. Saying sorry never did get easier. Not for a lack of trying — no matter how proud Roman could sometimes be, he could handle letting go of his ego if it meant holding onto his boyfriend — but because what worked one day might completely backfire the next. Too many times, a sincere apology had ended up being taken for an excuse, which of course only made things worse.

By the time Roman pulled into the driveway of the very same house he'd stormed out of two days ago, he was already rehearsing various apologies in his head. He imagined how Monet might react if he said this, if he did that... It took some time, but the mental preparation did help. A deep breath in and out, and then Roman was ready.

The door and his mouth opened at the same time, a plea already perched on the tip of his tongue. The words never got any further. When Roman entered the house, he was greeted not with an angry face, not with a stony silence, but with the sound of Monet’s laugh and the babble of their television set.

“Monet?”

The man in question turned at the sound of his name, arm slung lazily over the back of the couch. Completely at ease. “Oh! Hey there, Ro, good to see you! Did your family visit go okay?” His tone was casual, lighthearted, warm, without even a hint of accusation.

Roman blinked. “I — er — yeah, it was fine, but —"

“Glad to hear it,” Monet interrupted before Roman had the chance to voice his confusion. “Welcome home.”

Something about the way Monet said the word _home_ seemed a little stiff, but Roman didn’t linger on it; there was a much more important question at hand. “Are you not… angry?”

“What?” Monet looked puzzled. “Why would I be angry? Did something happen?”

 _No way._ “You know, the argu…” Roman started to explain on autopilot, but cut himself off. If Monet had already forgotten about the argument, then he saw no reason to bring it up again. “You know what, never mind,” he finished, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

But Monet wasn’t fooled. “Roman, tell me what’s going on. Why do you look so unhappy?”

“It’s really not a big deal —”

_“Roman.”_

Monet’s voice was suddenly hard as steel.

“Tell me.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command, and Roman had no choice but to obey.

“...The argument we had. Right before I left on Saturday. I kept blaming you, but the problem wasn’t you, it was _me._ I was just too stubborn to admit it. I thought you’d still be upset at me for that. You’re… not?”

To Roman’s surprise, his boyfriend laughed.

“You can’t seriously think I’m still angry over that little spat. I would never let something so small ruin what we have. Don’t you know we’re stronger than that?” Monet’s expression changed just then, darkening as something new occurred to him. “Unless… Roman, you’re not _still_ upset at me.”

“What? _No!”_ Roman cried. “Not at all, I don’t — I’m not _upset,_ Monet, I’m _relieved._ I spent the entire weekend worrying that you were mad at me!”

“There’s nothing to be mad _about,_ Ro. We’re fine. Seriously, forget Saturday ever happened.” Monet gestured towards the television with his head. “Come on, it’s about time we finished off the last bag of popcorn anyway; it’s just been gathering dust sitting all alone in the cupboard. Let’s watch some TV together, okay? I’ll even let you choose the show.”

Overwhelmed with gratefulness, Roman could barely squeak out an “okay” before nearly tripping over his own two feet on his way to the kitchen cupboard. Forgiven and forgotten, just like that. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been.

He should have seen this coming. Sure, his boyfriend could get a little passionate now and then, but most of the time Monet was a real sweetheart. It was just like his boyfriend to have already given him forgiveness before he even thought to ask for it.

 _I don’t deserve him,_ thought Roman, watching the bag of popcorn slowly spinning around through the dimly lit microwave window. While he had been busily shifting blame and letting feelings fester, Monet had dismissed their petty little shouting match as soon as it was over. Had it even been a shouting match at all? Maybe he only remembered it as one because _he_ had been shouting. He could have sworn that Monet had gotten angry too, but in the heat of the moment, his judgement could so easily have been clouded. He’d have to be careful not to let his temper get the better of him next time.

Though something uneasy and uncertain lingered in the back of his mind, the _beep_ of the microwave distracted him from focusing on it too much. Whatever was bothering him, he was sure it was nothing a couple of handfuls of popcorn and some bad sitcoms couldn’t fix.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i know, i know it’s late, but i swear to you i have been doing absolutely everything in my power to finish editing this darn thing. i somehow managed to forget (??? what the heck speck???) that the last week of february was show week for me, and i've got even more performances for completely unrelated extracurriculars like jazz choir coming up after this. between all the overlapping emergency rehearsals and coming home at midnight every night, the only way i could have worked on anything was by getting up at five in the morning, but i kept sleeping through my alarm... it's been a crazy week on all counts. so please forgive me for publishing late again :00 hopefully you enjoyed the chapter anwyays!! thank you so much for reading as always


	4. Just Another Manic Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As any reasonable high school student would tell you, school sucks most on Mondays. Patton knows this all too well.

On Monday, Patton woke up.

_ Ugggghhhh. _

Patton had never liked Mondays. Mondays were miserable days built on the crushed dreams of students — students with better things to do than be rudely woken by their squawking alarm clocks and put thought into their outfits and go to  _ school.  _ What kind of madman would ever be a fan of Monday?

Although to be fair, it wasn’t like high school was _all_ bad _all_ the time. Sure, classes could be a bummer, but school could mean so much more with the right attitude: a regular excuse to see friends, a community ripe with opportunity, and sometimes even baking if he was lucky (Home Ec. had been a good choice)! Things could be a lot worse.

Especially considering how sweet everyone always was. On the first day of Patton’s freshman year, Sandford Secondary School had felt bigger than elementary and middle school combined; so many unfamiliar faces, so many uncertain opportunities, so many things that could go wrong… But it hadn’t taken long for Patton to start making friends. 

Now, navigating the familiarly packed halls, he could put a name to every face he passed. “Morning, Linda; cute earrings! Brendan, good to see you, how’d football go? You won? Awesome!” Patton called over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, greeting everyone he could. He exchanged smiles, returned friendly nods, even gave a few hugs here or there after the hallways had cleared up enough to allow it. 

Everybody had a story to tell, each one as complex as the last. It fascinated Patton to no end to think about how he could dip his toes into so many at once with no more than a quick “hello”. And he really, genuinely cherished every single one of them. 

_ Well…  _

Patton turned away from a bout of banter with another student to find himself staring at the door to his homeroom class.

_ …maybe not  _ every _ single one. _

Sure, school meant friends, and community, and baking, which was all well and good. But you see, school also meant facing his English teacher Mr. Mitchell first thing in the morning. 

Every. Single. Day.

***

_ On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had shown up to class wearing a brand-new shirt, his favourite lucky sneakers, and the biggest smile that any of teachers had ever seen.  _

He’d been chatting with some upperclassmen earlier that day, a small gaggle of eleventh and twelfth graders — all of whom had expressed sympathy upon finding out that Patton’s homeroom teacher was to be Mr. Mitchell this year. “Poor you,” one girl had said, pulling a face. “My friends all tell me that he’s a really strict marker. I heard half the class had to retake their exams last year.”

“Yeah, and he picks favourites,” her friend had chimed in. “So you’re gonna want to make sure he likes you early on. Otherwise, you’re gonna be in for a hell of a nightmare year.”

But Patton had refused to let his optimistic smile falter. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad!” he’d said cheerily. “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll keep it in mind.”

And he had — nightmare or not, Patton always liked to try and bond with his teachers. What better way to start than by showing up to class early? One of the first to arrive, Patton had considered himself lucky to be able to take a seat at the front of the room.

If only he’d had the sense to keep his butt in the chair.

While the other students were trickling in, Patton figured he might as well take this time to get to know his new teacher a little better. Despite what the girl and her friend had said, Mr. Mitchell didn’t seem too scary. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, thirty-five at most, and the way he carried himself almost reminded Patton of his father. 

The girl’s warning the last thing on his mind, Patton had made his way over to the classic wooden teacher’s desk at which Mr. Mitchell sat, holding a plastic bottle of something colourful that he took a few sips out of every now and again. 

“Hi, Mr. Mitchell, what’cha drinking?”

Much to Patton’s dismay, a look of annoyance had instantly crossed his teacher’s face. He tensed.  _ Uh-oh. That can’t be good. _

_ “What are you.” _

“Huh?”

Mr. Mitchell sighed heavily before speaking again, exaggeratedly enunciating every syllable, as if explaining a painfully basic concept to a foolish toddler having trouble keeping up. “Your statement ought to have been  _ what are you drinking,  _ not  _ whatcha drinking.” _

Patton should have quit then and there, should have apologized and turned around and sat down before he could dig himself any deeper. Maybe then, homeroom might have at least been bearable this year. But what did he do instead?

With a chuckle: “Oh! My bad! What  _ are _ you drinking?” 

Mr. Mitchell’s response was to put down his bottle and steeple his fingers, studying Patton carefully and all the while saying nothing. When he finally spoke, it was with a question of his own. “Young man, what is your name?”

“Um — Patton?”

“Well,  _ Patton _ —” the boy in question barely suppressed a shudder at how bitter Mr. Mitchell managed to make his name sound — “I’m not sure why you, a student, are behaving in such a familiar manner with me. A teacher. In this class, you speak only when spoken to or when answering a question. There are no other instances where I should  _ ever  _ hear your voice.” Mr. Mitchell picked up his plastic bottle once again, clearly indicating that the conversation was over. “Now, I suggest you return to your chair. Class will begin shortly, and I will not hesitate to mark you as late if you are not fully seated when the bell rings.”

“O-oh. Right. Sorry.”

A moment later, he was back at his desk, gripping the sides of his chair just a little tighter than usual. Patton took a moment to steady himself.  _ Don’t overreact, Pat.  _ He wasn’t about to let his first day of tenth grade be tainted with this negative encounter.  _ So you guys got off to a bit of a rocky start, big deal. He’ll probably forget about this before you know it.  _ Comforted by the positive self-talk, Patton’s grip loosened, and he breathed easy. 

…that is, right up until he  _ messed everything up again _ .

As promised, the bell rang only a few minutes after Patton’s failed attempt at making friends. Without missing a beat, his teacher stood to deliver a (probably obligatory) welcome speech, seeming quite bored the entire time he was speaking — which, as far as Patton was concerned, was a-okay. Bored was better than angry, after all. Mr. Mitchell went over schedules, covered classroom expectations and school rules, dedicated a few minutes to the whole “you’ve got to be responsible now that you’re not freshmen anymore” spiel… pretty much a carbon copy of what teachers last year had told Patton, if he swapped out “freshmen” with “middle schoolers”.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Mitchell’s words to begin blurring together; Patton simply wasn’t the kind of student who could just sit still and listen for an hour and a half. But tempted as he was to tune out entirely, what if Mr. Mitchell said something important, and he missed it? He just needed some kind of outlet for his energy, then he would be able to focus much better.

A notebook and some pencils were already out on his desk; a habit that he’d carried over from last year, when none of his teachers had ever objected to him doodling in class. So when he grabbed a pencil and idly flipped his notebook open, his mind barely registered the motion — it was almost second nature at this point. Patton’s hands moved of their own accord, aimlessly scribbling shapes into the margins of a fresh, blank page. His own eyes drifted down to his page from time to time, but his focus stayed all the while on his teacher droning on at the front of the classroom. It was a harmless, idle action, offending no one.

Or so Patton thought, until for the second time that day, he heard his new teacher call his name in a manner that hardly suggested  _ harmless. _

“Patton Foley,” came his teacher’s voice, startling Patton into dropping the pencil he’d been doodling with. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Patton’s notebook quickly flipped shut. “Y-yes?” Though he kept his gaze on Mr. Mitchell, he could feel his ears beginning to burn as he grew uncomfortably aware of many more sets of eyes all staring at him.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” 

Mr. Mitchell’s voice was so cold that Patton could almost feel sharp icicle tips nudging up against his skin. Patton shrank inwards, sure that they would pierce in him a thousand tiny holes if he let them. “I — er — nothing.”

_ “Sir,”  _ his teacher added harshly.

Patton bit his lip. “Nothing,  _ sir. _ ”

“Is that right. It didn’t look like nothing from over here. To me, it looked like you weren’t paying attention.”

“I  _ was _ paying attention… sir. I promise. It’s just easier for me to pay attention when I give my hands something to do,” Patton tried to explain.

But Mr. Mitchell wasn’t buying it. Slowly stalking over to where Patton was seated, it seemed almost like he was enjoying this. “There’s no need to worry. After all, I’m sure that you must have been working on something of  _ immeasurable  _ importance, for it to have taken priority over the very first class of the year. So.” He eyed Patton’s notebook. “Care to show me what you were doing?”

“Um, uh… yeah, of course, sure thing.” Patton nervously opened the notebook up to the page he’d been drawing on. It was covered with tiny hearts and stars and houses, those little boxes with the triangles for a roof and two windows and a door, and with smiley faces, a few of those manga-styled eyes that everyone learns to draw at some point in their lives, with half-erased failed attempts at hands of completely unreasonable anatomy… he had simply let his fingers do what they wanted, and it showed. Usually, Patton didn’t mind messy doodles, but under the careful scrutiny of Mr. Mitchell, he suddenly found himself embarrassed. From his teacher’s point of view, it must have looked like some kind of stormy monster made of pencil graphite and eraser shavings had come and gone, leaving behind crinkles and rips everywhere it touched.

“Interesting. Mr. Foley, I must say, this does  _ not  _ look like ‘nothing’ to me. It seems that you were too preoccupied with your fine arts to be worrying about the words of an inconsequential teacher like myself. Is that correct?”

Patton shook his head nervously. “Not at all, sir. I’m… I’m really sorry, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t  _ think. _ ” Mr. Mitchell grabbed the notebook. “Clearly not. Come find me after school and I may return your precious drawing book if I deem it necessary. I believe that we need to have a nice, long discussion about classroom etiquette, since I’m sure you didn’t hear the behavioural rules that I laid out earlier, did you?”

Though Patton briefly debated arguing, the fact of the matter was that he had somehow managed to make Mr. Mitchell mad twice in about twenty minutes. The last thing he wanted to do was make that a third time. No, it would be better to keep his head down and co-operate. “ ‘kay,” Patton mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

Mr. Mitchell stayed standing, staring at Patton for just a little while longer, mouth twisted with distaste, perhaps searching for something else to point out to further hammer his point home. Patton wished he would just go away already. Then again, he was starting to figure out that the universe didn’t really feel like granting his wishes today.

“Fix your posture. Slouching is indicative of a lack of respect,” Mr. Mitchell finally griped. Then, apparently finding nothing else, he tightened his grasp on the notebook before carrying it to the front of the room and starting again to drone on and on about classroom rules, voice resting at a steady and certain monotone.

_ On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had never been quite so happy to hear a dismissal bell ring in his life. _

***

That day, Mr. Mitchell had apparently made up his mind that Patton was going to be a troublesome student, and since then, he’d refused to even entertain the notion that he could ever be anything but. The freckled boy had long since given up on trying to convince his teacher otherwise, choosing instead to just be as polite and un-disruptive as possible in the hope that his teacher would someday grow tired of tormenting him. He was starting to think that the day would never come, though.

_ Ah, well. Better get this over with.  _ Patton steeled his nerves and opened the dreaded door. 

Not even a second later, his English teacher materialized in front of him with arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Mr. Foley. Your shoelace is untied. Show some respect for the school’s dress code, can’t you? You ought to be thinking about presenting yourself in a more appropriate manner when you enter my classroom.” He sighed dramatically, as if personally victimized by the loose bit of cord. “Don’t be so careless tomorrow. Tie your shoes and have a seat.”

Patton gritted his teeth, biting back hot speech. To argue would only give Mr. Mitchell another item to add to an ever-growing list of failures and shortcomings. Rather than grant his teacher the satisfaction, Patton patiently did as he was told, then sat at his front-of-the-room seat without complaint. This pointless nitpicking was nothing new, but knowing that didn’t make Patton any less vexed. If anything, his frustration was only building with each day.

He often wondered, if he’d only acted differently back then, would things be different today? If he’d focused on blending in instead of standing out, would his teacher have left him alone?

The bell rang, interrupting Patton’s thoughts. Within the same second, Mr. Mitchell was on his feet and starting the day’s lecture. 

Time to pay attention. Or at least pretend to _. _ Pencil at the ready, Patton opened his notebook (which he now used exclusively for taking notes) and tried not to think about how slowly the seconds were ticking by. 

***

"Patton! Man, am I glad to see you,” gushed Corbin, thumping a brown paper bag down onto the lunch table and sliding into the seat next to Patton.

“Hey, good to see you too! How was second period? Geology, right?” Patton greeted his older friend with a hug. 

“Yeah, about as good as talking about rocks for an hour and a half can be. I’m so jealous that you get to have Home Ec while I’m stuck in science class,” groaned Corbin. “I’ve missed you so much, Pat!”

Patton’s older cousin Sloane sighed, sitting down on the other side of his notably peppier boyfriend. “Corbin, chill out. We literally eat lunch with Patton on the daily.” He pulled out his lunch as well: an apple, some pretzel sticks, and a ham and cheese sandwich cut diagonally with no crust (Sloane had been eating the exact same thing every lunch of his life since grade school).

“Okay, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be excited to see him! Patton _ gets _ me, Slo.”

_ “Why _ would you call me  _ ‘Slo’?  _ It doesn’t do anything, my regular name only has one syllable.”

“Nicknames are cute, though!” Patton piped up, defending Corbin.

“Yeah, exactly! See, Sloane? This is what I’m talking about — he  _ totally _ gets me! Like, I love you and all, but I need Patton to keep me safe from your influence or I might actually become a  _ reasonable  _ person, you know? No one wants that.”

Sloane considered that, taking a bite of his apple as he reflected on Corbin’s words, then suddenly melted. “Okay... you’re right. You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t ever change, alright?”

“Woah, break it up, lovebirds,” laughed a voice from behind Patton. Three heads turned in unison to greet the newcomer.

“Valerie!” greeted Patton cheerfully, scooting over to make room for his longtime friend. “I thought you had jazz band today?”

“It got cancelled,” Valerie replied, sitting down and somehow taking out almost half a slice of pizza in one bite. “Mr. Brussels had some kind of schedule conflict or something. It’s alright, we sound fine. Except maybe the trumpets, but they wouldn’t have done anything with the extra rehearsal time either way.”

“I’m glad you have time to eat with us again, then,” said Sloane. “You’re so busy with your extracurriculars all the time that I sometimes wonder if you ever even  _ do  _ eat.”

“Says the guy involved in every business team the school has to offer,” Valerie shot back, stealing a pretzel stick.

“Touché.” Sloane sat and watched as his container of pretzel sticks not-so-slowly started to disappear into Valerie’s stomach, as was bound to happen whenever she spent lunch with them. Encouraged by Sloane’s apparent indifference, Corbin and Patton grabbed a few, too. 

As the four friends continued to laugh and chat about anything and everything, Patton felt himself relax. There was food in his stomach, half of the school day was already over, and he was surrounded by people he loved. Nothing could go wrong! Nothing could stress him out!

“Oh, Patton, I forgot to ask. How’d your English quiz go?”

Correction: one thing could stress him out. 

Patton hoped his long, heavy sigh was answer enough.

“That bad, huh?” sympathised Valerie. “Don’t worry, Pat. It really isn’t your fault. Mr. Mitchell’s just a… just a massive fire-breathing jerk!”

Patton had to laugh despite himself. “Funny that you should call him fire-breathing, Valerie. It fits. My brother Roman’s started calling him Dragon Witchell, did you know?”

“Oh my goodness,” Corbin said, eyes widening in delight. “Patton, your brother’s a genius. We  _ have  _ to start doing that.”

“Um, actually, I’d rather just… not. Talk about him, I mean. Or talk about English class at all anymore, to be honest,” was Patton’s quiet response. “It’s not a big deal, honestly. And I don’t think I should blame Mr. Mitchell. He’s just… got a stricter teaching style than I’m used to.” At his friends’ vehement protests, Patton only shook his head. “Seriously, can we please just drop it?”

Seeing that the discussion was heading nowhere, Corbin was the first to give up, inquiring instead after Patton’s recent tutoring session. “That was this past Friday, right?”

“Oh — yeah!” Patton grabbed the offer immediately, grateful for an opportunity to change the subject. “Yeah, that was great. I was really nervous that my tutor and I wouldn’t get along, but things didn’t turn out too bad! He’s so, uh…” Patton trailed off as he realized he didn’t know what to say. The truth was that he and his tutor  _ hadn’t  _ gotten along, but Patton didn’t want to make his friends any more worried than they already were. “He’s so dedicated to his work, you know?” were the words that Patton eventually settled on.

“That’s fantastic, Patton,” replied Sloane. “See, what’d I tell you? There was never anything to worry about. The tutoring program at our school is really great at matching students and tutors; I’m not really sure  _ how  _ they do it, but I don’t think there’s been a single time that a tutoring match hasn’t worked out —”

“Getting a little passionate there, Sloane,” Valerie said. “Your inner nerd is showing.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Patton immediately reassured her. 

Which may have been a lie. Patton knew that Sloane hadn’t meant any harm by his words, but he couldn’t help but think: if all the other tutor-to-student matches had worked so well, how come he was the exception?  _ Maybe it’s a sign that I can’t really learn anything after all,  _ Patton thought miserably. 

Then he caught himself. What was he doing, wallowing in self-pity like this? There were plenty of positives to focus on, too, weren’t there? Like…

“You know… Logan’s actually, uh, really cute,” Patton admitted. 

The reaction from his friends was immediate — Valerie and Corbin both squealed, Corbin’s voice somehow even higher-pitched than Valerie’s first soprano, and even Sloane couldn’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.

“Patton, have you, like, got a  _ crush  _ on him?” Corbin sang out, an intentionally annoying twang creeping into his voice. Patton gave him a light shove in response.

Valerie bounced in her seat. “Oh my gosh, you _totally have a crush on him!”_ Her voice was just loud enough to attract the attention of some kids sitting at nearby tables.

“Valerie, not so loud!” Patton hissed. Still, despite the awkwardness of the situation, the freckled boy found himself laughing along, his friends  _ ooh- _ ing in the background. “I just… I think he’s kinda good-looking, that’s all! I’m just — I’m just saying, I… Sloane, a little help?”

But Sloane seemed, for once, immune to Patton’s puppy eyes. “Sorry, Pat. You’re on your own with this one.” With a shrug, he rose to his feet to go throw out his apple core, conveniently abandoning Patton with the other two friends, who were now taking turns peppering Patton with questions.

“Wait! No! Don’t leave me!” Patton made a grab for the back of Sloane’s jacket, but missed. He could only watch as Sloane, snickering, dropped the apple core in the school’s green bin before leaving the cafeteria entirely — surely waiting just outside the cafeteria doors for Corbin, as the two of them were never far apart, but it was far enough away to allow Sloane to escape the rapid-fire inquisition that Patton was trying his best to fend off. 

“So does he have dimples like the last guy?”

“Valerie! You can’t just ask something like that!”

“What? I’m  _ curious!” _

Patton groaned. “Sloaaaaaane…”

***

Hours later, Patton groaned again. 

The second half of the school day had proven just as exhausting as the first. After being set free by the lunch bell, he’d gone straight into struggling through Math class, then nearly fell asleep in History. Now, home at last, Patton was tiredly trudging his way through a worksheet that seemed to have no end. A glass of water or a year-long nap or a hard surface to bang his head against would be ideal right about now.

In other words… Monday.

Staring blankly at the swirling mess of numbers before him, Patton picked up his eraser for the umpteenth time that night. Or tried to — the tiny stub of rubber slipped right out of his tired grasp. Patton let it fall, too tired to care. 

This was ridiculous. Patton’s Math teacher couldn’t be more different from Mr. Mitchell; she was fantastically kind, immeasurably patient, and on occasion would even give out candy to her students. It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Lauren was everyone’s favourite. 

So what on  _ Earth  _ was she doing teaching the blandest, bleakest, boring-est subject of them all? 

Though Patton would never outright say so, there were few things he hated more than doing math. Not even Mr. Mitchell was as bad. Of course, it wasn’t Mrs. Lauren’s fault. It was just that he’d never really understood… well, anything past simple addition or subtraction, to be honest. He’d  _ tried _ to memorise his formulas and times tables and digits of pi —  honest, he had! 

But try as he might… 

It was during middle school that Patton began falling farther and farther behind (or, at least, that he began to really notice). Throughout lessons, he’d jumble his numbers, mix up place values, accidentally drop a digit here or there, forget how to tell positives from negatives. You name it. Most of the time, he even struggled with figuring out the time of day; the numbers displayed on digital clocks meant nothing to him, and Patton couldn’t for the life of him tell you the difference between a minute and an hour anyway. One was longer than the other, but which one was it? How  _ much  _ longer? As for using analog clocks to tell time... might as well use owl dung, for all the good it would do him. Although Patton  _ had _ eventually managed to figure out how to read analog clocks in theory, it would take him so long to muddle through the numbers in his head that by the time he figured out what was being displayed on the clock face, so much time would have gone by that he’d have to start all over again from scratch. 

That was the case for most mathematical concepts, actually. Technically speaking, Patton did know his formulas well enough. The issue was applying them. Problems that were apparently simple to his classmates took Patton forever to even figure out how to  _ approach _ , let alone solve. As for double-checking his solution? Forget it. Working through the problem just once was already one time too many.

For sure, Patton had come a long way since grade school. But it got difficult to look on the bright side when his progress was so slow, so agonisingly slow, and he was  _ so  _ far behind the rest of his classmates — let alone the speed at which _ Roman _ had picked these same subjects up.

He did have help, though. To her credit, Mrs. Lauren’s kindness was almost enough to make Math class tolerable. Once she’d noticed how much Patton was struggling, she’d started going out of her way to check in on him after lessons and spend as long as necessary explaining and re-explaining tough concepts that he hadn’t grasped the first time around. Though she did assign lots of homework, Mrs. Lauren genuinely cared about her students and was always ready to drop everything and help one out.

...A fact that Patton was all too aware of. He hadn’t hesitated at first to ask for help when he needed it, but that had changed once he’d realized he was the only one doing so. Yes, other students would swing by the teacher’s desk from time to time, but Patton spent so much time there he might as well switch spots with her. With all the extra work he was constantly forcing upon her, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being a burden on his kind teacher. It didn’t help when Mrs. Lauren started suggesting that Patton look into the school’s tutoring program. She was very gentle about it, but Patton knew she was just trying to politely get rid of him. He asked less questions after that. 

None at all, in fact.

Until one day after class, clearly concerned, Mrs. Lauren pulled him aside to ask if something was wrong. “It seems like you’ve been holding back recently” had been her exact words — not entirely a  _ what’s wrong with you _ , but Patton could read between the lines well enough. 

He nearly told her the truth. Stupid idea, right? Something told him saying he was avoiding her so she wouldn’t get worried about him would be counterproductive, to say the least. 

So instead, Patton told Mrs. Lauren what she was surely hoping to hear — he hadn’t been asking for help because he didn’t  _ need  _ help. Her teaching had been incredibly useful, Patton assured her; he was getting faster at picking up lessons and better at holding onto them, and that was why he hadn’t been checking in as much lately. 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw the soft creases in his teacher’s forehead disappear, her lips un-purse, her shoulders relax. The sight was almost gratifying enough to make him forget he’d just lied to his favourite teacher’s face.

Almost.

Although... he  _ had  _ told the truth, to an extent. All Mrs. Lauren’s teaching and extra help  _ had  _ been incredibly useful. He  _ was  _ learning faster, and he  _ did  _ understand some basic concepts better. But his implication that he understood everything couldn’t be further from the truth, and as time went on Patton came to really regret his lie of omission. 

Especially since Mrs. Lauren eventually came to see right through it. As his grades plummeted, Mrs. Lauren asked him again and again if he was  _ sure  _ that he didn’t need any more extra help. And yet, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Patton continued to tell Mrs. Lauren that everything would be just fine, that he really  _ could  _ do this on his own, that her offers were appreciated but unnecessary, that she must be tired of needing to hold his hand and walk him through classes. 

(When Mrs. Lauren gave up at last, Patton couldn’t decide whether he should be relieved or disappointed.)

After he got his midterm marks back, though, it became clear that at the rate he was going, there was no way that he’d be able to catch up with the rest of the class by the end of the year. But asking Mrs. Lauren to resume their unofficial one-on-one help sessions was out of the question after how vehemently he’d refused all her previous offers. At this point, his situation couldn’t really be described as  _ up the creek without a paddle _ anymore; no, he’d been given heaping armfuls of perfectly good paddles, and his response had been to light first them and then his own boat on fire. 

He needed Math help. That much was for sure. But if not from Mrs. Lauren, then who? 

The answer had come to him just before winter break, when he’d suddenly remembered Mrs. Lauren’s suggestion that he look into finding a tutor. Why not, after all? As outgoing as he was, he’d never been one for clubs — that had always been more Roman’s thing — meaning he’d have more than enough time on his hands. And though Patton wasn’t too keen on the idea of willingly subjecting himself to  _ even more math _ , he knew that he’d need to put in the extra work if he wanted to pass the course. It was either work with a tutor or continue trying to figure it out on his own. 

The more he thought about it, the more sure he felt. He could probably even get some English help while he was at it; according to the school’s official website, Sandford SS had an abundance of tutors with a wide range of subject mastery to offer. The school apparently went to great lengths to create good student-tutor matches, with almost 100% success rates; students very rarely requested to switch tutors, the site told him. Patton had to admit that he was a little skeptical of that last part — he didn’t need to be a genius to know that 100% was a pretty hefty claim — but it had provided some comfort to know that at least the school wouldn’t just slap him together with someone at random. 

After tentatively bringing the idea up at the dinner table one night, Patton’s parents had responded with enthusiasm (maybe too much enthusiasm, actually, but Patton tried not to think about that). His father had loudly announced his support without missing a beat; his mother had taken a more subtle approach, first asking Patton a few questions, but still agreeing just a little too easily. Clearly, Patton had not been the first in his family to think of tutoring.

After spending a handful of days discussing the how’s and when’s and where’s, Patton’s parents gave him the okay just before winter break to visit Sandford Secondary’s tutoring office, which turned out to be filled with wonderfully warm-hearted students and staff alike. One merrily smiling upperclassman named Emile offered to contact the Foleys via email over the break. 

Although perhaps a little eccentric, Emile was exceptionally kind and patient. He walked Patton and his parents through the entire process, answering questions along the way and explaining things that they hadn’t even thought to ask. To make sure Patton was properly matched, Emile was even willing to meet up with the Foleys in person and conduct a quick get-to-know-you interview. All in all, things were going well.

Emile’s last email came two weeks before winter break. The subject line:  _ Great news — your match has been finalized! _ It was only then, faced with the knowledge that there would be no going back now, that Patton started getting nervous. What if he and his tutor didn’t get along? What if his tutor thought he was stupid? What if it turned out that even tutoring wasn’t enough to fix Patton’s broken brain?

The very first conversation he’d had with his new tutor, which had taken place over text, had been friendly enough but did very little to ease Patton’s concerns. Remembering Emile’s assurance that students and tutors typically got along very well, Patton had greeted his tutor as if speaking to an old friend:

> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm):  _ heya!!
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm):  _ is this logan?
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm):  _ i’m patton
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:22 pm):  _ your new student :)
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm):  _ super duper pumped to meet you!!!! emiles been saying lots of great stuff, looks like you really chamred him lololol
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm):  _ *charmed
> 
> _ mycroft-er-jam (2:26 pm):  _ Hello there. Yes, you’ve reached Logan Berry. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Patton. I look forward to meeting you face to face during our first session. Speaking of which, we ought to arrange a time and location now. My schedule is flexible; what works for you?
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm):  _ oh uhhh
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm):  _ honestly im not really too busy either?
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm):  _ lolol
> 
> _ mycroft-er-jam (2:29 pm):  _ Hm. I see. Perhaps it would be more effective for us to establish how many times a week you’d like to meet before we get into the specifics.
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:30 pm):  _ yah sure!! :)
> 
> _ mycroft-er-jam (2:38 pm):  _ …So?
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:38 pm):  _ oh
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm):  _ wait
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm) _ : were you asking ME
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm):  _ sorry! let me go check w my parents
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:43 pm):  _ ok does 2 a week sound ok? maybe tuesday and friday?
> 
> _ mycroft-er-jam (2:45 pm):  _ Yes, I believe that will work out just fine for me. Do you happen to be situated near the Sandford Main Public Library? I would like for us to use that location as a study space if possible, on account of its optimal volume and lighting conditions. 
> 
> _ mycroft-er-jam (2:46 pm)  _ Of course, if you had another place in mind, I am certainly open to suggestion.
> 
> _ TheJollyJollyFoley (2:46 pm):  _ no thats good :)

The rest of the conversation had gone by in a similar fashion; strictly business. By the end, Patton still knew next to nothing about his new tutor. He attempted chitchat several times in the following days, but Logan never once responded unless it was to answer a question.

Patton had to admit that he’d been hoping that Logan would be a little more friendly in-person; it was part of the reason why he himself had been so loose-lipped during their first session — he was still hoping he’d have a chance to coax out the student-tutor bond that Emile had promised. Alas, nothing. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that Patton’s tutor already hated him at this point.

Ugh, and the whole thing wouldn’t be quite so painful if it weren’t for how  _ painfully cute  _ Logan was. Miserably, Patton buried his head in his hands.  _ There’s no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye tomorrow. _

Wait.

_ Tomorrow? _

Logan had assigned him  _ homework _ for tomorrow, hadn’t he?

Patton jolted upright, fumbling to snatch his pencil back up before tearing through the math worksheet as quickly as he could — which, to be fair, wouldn’t have been very fast at all if it hadn’t been for him giving up on the last few questions and scribbling numbers at random.  _ I can redo them during lunch anyway _ , he told himself, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. As soon as he was finished, he stuffed the worksheet into his binder, pulling out a fresh sheet of lined paper in its place. 

Patton chewed at the end of his pencil as he tried desperately to recall what Logan had said on Friday. A page… single-spaced, he believed. Or was it double? No, single. 

A single-spaced page of  _ what,  _ though? Something to do with learning goals… Yes! Short-term and long-term learning goals, that was it! 

Now, where to begin? For a short-term goal, perhaps he could say he wanted to improve his grades by 10% by the end of the school year. Ambitious, but broad enough to apply to both Math and English, killing two birds with one stone.

Long-term turned out to be a little trickier. For Math, he supposed he ought to focus on understanding the concepts that gave him trouble —  _ really  _ understanding, so he could actually know what he was doing instead of just plugging numbers into formulas and hoping that they would work. 

As for English, he wasn’t so sure. Patton had long suspected that one of the biggest factors bringing down his English mark was his own rocky relationship with Mr. Mitchell, but how could he work that into a long-term goal? Maybe he should just focus on the Math for now; he could figure out the rest after a few more sessions.

That is, assuming Logan could stand to stick with him for that long. Patton tried not to think about the alternative as he put dull pencil to paper and his even duller mind to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! as always, you're more than welcome to leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter <3
> 
> (translation: i'm hungry for validation and unafraid to shamelessly beg)


	5. (Paint Our Walls) A Lighter Shade of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In spite of history, Logan lets his guard down a little easier this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm publishing this chapter early to make up for how short it is. sorry, hope you all don't mind!

Logan Berry checked his watch, foot tapping impatiently against the plush library carpet, before sighing and settling back into his seat.

Four o'clock sharp, and Patton was nowhere to be found. Again.

After a moment’s deliberation, Logan got to his feet. His laptop slid into his bag as he headed into the nearby science-fiction section. A classic Asimov would be perfect to keep him occupied until his student arrived, and he’d been meaning to reread  _ I, Robot,  _ anyway.

Logan was almost a third into his novel when he finally heard footsteps approaching — stomping, more like. And stomping fast. Was someone  _ sprinting _ through the library?

“Watch you don’t knock out any books this time, hmm?” Logan said drily, watching a breathless Patton turn the corner. 

His flushed student gave a sheepish nod before sliding into the chair opposite where Logan had earlier been waiting. “Sorry I’m late,” Patton puffed, swinging his backpack onto his lap. “I was just —”

Logan held up a hand to silence him. “Spare me the excuses for now. And hold onto that bag of yours. I’ve booked a study room for today’s session.”  _ This way, you won’t disturb the rest of the library with your incessant chatter,  _ he added mentally. “Come, follow me.”

So into the study room they went, Logan leading the way and Patton following meekly behind. An LED lamp was already glowing, probably having been switched on by the last person to use the room. (Logan turned it off before it could waste any more electricity.) On the side of the room opposite the door, stretching from wall to wall, was a grey table with plenty of desk space and a few electrical outlets. Three wheeled chairs were lined up in front of the table, which seemed odd considering the room was barely big enough to fit three people — although for two it was the perfect size. 

Patton plopped down into a chair and instantly started spinning before he caught himself and stopped with what must have taken immense self-control. Logan shut the door behind them and pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Then, safe at last within the study room’s soundproof walls, Logan finally turned to fix his student with a disapproving look. “I must say that your tardiness does not bode well,” he remarked with thinly veiled annoyance. “This is only our second session, and yet you’ve managed to show up even later than last time. Care to explain yourself?”

“I’m really, really sorry! I was just — I’m still not used to the new schedule, and usually I have to grab a bite of something after school, because I’m more focused when there’s something in my stomach, and I lost track of the time while I was eating, so I forgot that this was happening, and —” 

“When you fail to show up on time, the only time wasted is your own.” Irritation clipped Logan’s words short as he interrupted his student’s rambling, the look he gave his student nothing short of a glare. “I will not be extending sessions any longer than our appointed time no matter how late you are. Whether you eat your little after-school snack or not is none of my concern; all I am asking is for you to be on time and ready to learn. Beyond that, this issue is yours to figure out. Understood?” Without waiting for an answer, Logan took a seat next to his student. “Good. Glad we cleared that up. Now, have you brought the page I asked you to write last week?”

Patton stared. 

“...Patton?”

“Huh? Oh, the — yeah! Yeah, I have it right here.” Out came the boy’s binder, from which Patton pulled a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. Logan accepted it with an approving nod; it was good to see at least  _ some _ indicator that Patton cared about the success of their arrangement.

“Thank you. While I review your writing, I have procured a collection of Math and English worksheets for you to complete. Have you any preference for which subject you’d like to begin with?”

Patton didn’t hesitate. “English. Definitely.”

Pleasantly surprised at his student’s apparent enthusiasm, Logan obligingly handed Patton a comprehension-and-analysis practice sheet. Blissful silence followed as both began their respective readings. 

Ironically, the most extraordinary thing about Patton’s writing was how _ ordinary _ it was. He had a fairly good grasp on grammar, spelling, sentence structure. Yes, the writing itself was maybe a little weak in places, but nothing to merit Patton _ failing  _ English. Not perfect, but certainly not the mess that Logan had been expecting, either. Just… average. 

Although perhaps it was too early to judge.  _ Maybe he has trouble with text comprehension,  _ Logan thought. He would find out as soon as he got that worksheet back, anyway. 

In the meantime, while Logan waited for Patton to finish said worksheet, he pulled out his notebook to jot down Patton’s short- and long-term goals in a concise list for his own reference, then added a few ideas of his own while he was at it. Once that was out of the way, Logan retrieved his novel and re-immersed himself in Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics.

Or, he tried to. He hadn’t even flipped the first page when he noticed that the constant scratching of Patton’s pencil had ceased, and when he looked up, it was to see Patton expectantly looking back at him.

_ Surely he hasn’t finished already. _ Logan’s watch read 16:38 _.  _ Assuming that Patton’s weakness was text comprehension, it should have taken him at least another fifteen minutes to complete the page.

“There’s more on the back of the sheet,” offered Logan, returning his gaze to the book in his hands. 

“I did that too.”

“…Come again?” 

The book dropped with an incredulous  _ thump _ . Patton cringed. “I did both sides. I think. Was I not supposed to?” 

Once he’d regained his composure, Logan hastened to reassure the boy. “No, no, you were correct in doing both sides. I was... not expecting you to complete the worksheet so quickly, is all.”

Patton looked back at his paper with a frown, nervous fingers running absently through his dirty blonde hair. “Maybe I missed something?”

“Doubtful. The questions were all printed very clearly.” Logan shook his head. “Put your mind at ease, Patton, it’s really quite alright. I’ll collect your page if you’re done. While I mark, you may work on these math diagnostics.” 

Logan was about five minutes into grading the English worksheet when he realized that he hadn’t heard Patton’s pencil start moving again. He glanced up to see Patton, completely still, staring at the three-page math package on his desk as if it had teeth. Logan cleared his throat. The boy jumped. 

“If it wasn’t clear before, you may start now.”

“Oh! Um, yeah, I was. Starting, that is. I’m… I just need a moment to read this over, that’s all.”

“I see. Well, don’t forget to ask me any questions you might have.”

“Yep, I will. I mean, I won’t. I mean — ” He checked himself. “I’ll ask if I have questions.” 

With that, Patton picked up his pencil and got to work. Logan did, too, brandishing a red pen as he made his corrections. 

Although in truth, there hardly was anything  _ to  _ correct. Much to Logan’s confusion, almost every one of Patton’s answers were spot on, meaning Patton’s issue with English couldn’t be text comprehension either. And if Patton’s technical skills and analytical skills were of average caliber, what  _ was  _ affecting his mark so severely? Oral communication? No, likely not — if Patton knew how to do one thing, it was talk.

How was Logan supposed to help his student improve if neither of them even knew what needed to be improved upon in the first place? Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he’d thought twice before becoming a private tutor. Though he’d assumed it would be simple work for someone of his intellect, this job was quickly proving to be... what was the word for the opposite of cut-and-dry? Intact and wet —?

Logan removed his glasses and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose. _ Focus.  _ His first priority was to figure out what was going on with Patton’s English mark; he could worry about antonyms later. Replacing his glasses after a quick polish, Logan settled in to think.

Half an hour of fruitless thought later, though, Logan’s resolve was wearing thin. With just under another thirty minutes left in their session, he was beginning to think that perhaps he ought to shelve the problem for another day. The solution may yet reveal itself after the two of them spent more time together, after all. 

With that thought, Logan turned his attention back to the boy sitting at the table, steadily labouring over a math worksheet. Truth be told, he was feeling a little useless; here they were, three-quarters into their session, and Patton had yet to request any help at all. Either Patton’s grades had somehow been some kind of massive fluke lasting half the year, or else the boy was simply too stubborn to ask anything. Whatever the reason, the room had been silent for too long. Under normal circumstances, lack of social interaction would hardly be cause for complaint, but this — this was his job, and he was determined to do it well.  

“How are those practice problems treating you?”

Patton gave a start at the sound of his tutor’s voice, head clumsily colliding into the wall. “Fine!” the boy squeaked, with all the certainty (not to mention vocal range) of a chipmunk on helium. He coughed and tried again. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s great. Nothing to worry about.”

Logan quirked an eyebrow. 

“I’m, uh, I’m just tearing through this package?” Patton’s words, punctuated with a nervous smile, were more like a question than a statement. “No problemo.”

"Is that right.” Somehow Logan wasn’t convinced. “Well, if everything is going fine, then I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a peek at your work so far, correct?” He paused to take in Patton’s barely-concealed panic before meaningfully adding, “Hypothetically, if there was someone in this room at the moment who had just communicated a falsehood of any sort, for any reason, now would be the ideal time to remedy that. Let it be known that I would not hold anything against, nor harbor any sort of anger, towards said individual if they so chose to speak up now. In fact, I would applaud their initiative. Entirely hypothetically speaking, that is.”

Subtlety never really had been Logan’s strong suit.

It did the trick, though. Caught red-handed, Patton fidgeted uncomfortably before dropping his pencil with a sigh. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.” He fell back into his chair, which rolled a few centimeters under him. “You got me!” continued Patton with a forced laugh. His strained smile dropped away moments later as he admitted, “Honestly? I’ve got no clue what I’m doing. Haven’t had any since I started this sheet. But I didn’t want to bug you with my questions, since you were busy marking the other work I did.”

It took every ounce of willpower and more than a few deep breaths for Logan to keep his promise of not getting mad. Half an hour gone, and Patton had wasted it doing… what? Staring at his paper and hoping that answers would magically appear? Logan took a moment for his exasperation to ebb before speaking in a carefully controlled tone:

“Patton… The  _ express purpose _ of our private tutoring arrangement is to provide a supportive, one-on-one learning environment in which you, the student, may ask questions to achieve a better understanding of the topics you are struggling with. Simply showing up to sessions and then insisting on blundering around on your own until an answer presents itself will benefit no one. I would much rather spend two hours explaining one concept to you than do nothing while you bluff your way through your work.”

“Okay.” Patton swallowed. “Got it.” He sounded smaller than ever. 

A brief pause.

“Well,” said Logan, “though there’s nothing we can do to recover our lost time today, we can still make the most of what little time we  _ do  _ have left. What have you been having trouble with?”

Patton screwed up his face in displeasure before covering it with his hands. He spoke through the cracks in his fingers: “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Patton, you have to give me  _ something  _ to work with here. I can’t help you until I know what you need help with.”

“Right, sorry. I need help with — keeping track of numbers. And how to apply formulas. And order of operations, probably, and also the weird stuff like factoring and linear algebra,” Patton clarified, not-very-helpfully listing off every single topic that the review sheet covered. “Also, places where you have to work with the numbers and variables, like here, here, and here. And here, and here too.”

_ You just pointed at every single question!  _ Logan wanted to scream. Instead, he drew in yet another deep breath before stiffly saying, “Okay. Yes. Good. Good start, Patton. But I really need you to tell me what  _ specifically  _ is confusing you about those things.”

“…Er, the… math… part...?”

_ You’ve got to be kidding me.  _ Logan ground his teeth. This was going to be the longest thirty minutes of his life.

***

“Thanks for the ride, Pop. I’ll see you at six, right?”

“You got it, Logan,” responded Seth Berry from behind the wheel. “Have a good time.”

_ Ha,  _ thought the boy, adjusting his already-comfortably perched glasses as he entered the library.  _ Unlikely. _

He should have known the glowing success stories that boy Emile had presented were too good to be true. After their last session, in which he’d spent the last half-hour trying to explain a painfully simple concept to Patton — who didn’t even seem to be listening — Logan was  _ not  _ looking forward to whatever trials may await him today.

Truth be told, Logan suspected Patton would tire of him soon. Most people did. For once in his life, Logan was grateful for the fact; the less time spent in this disaster of a tutoring arrangement, the better.

The old, worn red spine of a fancy-looking book caught Logan’s eye as soon as he set foot inside the building. But a quick skim over the summary revealed it to be another one of those superhero stories — and gracious, was he ever  _ sick  _ of superhero stories. Logan almost put it down until he noticed something peculiar: two of the four main characters shared the same names as he and his student. Seeing that his fictional name-alike could read minds (a power that Logan had always wished to have), he decided to give it a try after all, if for no reason other than silly self-indulgence.

Logan flipped the cover open as he made his way to the study room in which he and his student had agreed to meet up for future sessions. Already engrossed only a few pages in, Logan walked unhurriedly until he reached the room, where he glanced up to push open the door.

And stopped in his tracks. 

There was already someone inside, and though Logan couldn’t quite catch sight of their face, their identity was no mystery. Between the dirty blond curls and the way they were spinning themselves senseless on their wheeled chair, this could only be one person. Shaking his head in amazement, Logan took a moment to compose himself before silently pushing the door open. The other person, still spinning and laughing to themselves, didn’t seem to notice Logan had entered until he spoke. 

“Hello, Patton.”

“Ah —!” Patton came to an abrupt stop. His sandals did not. One flew across the room, narrowly missing the door, all before Logan could even wonder why a sixteen-year-old boy was wearing sandals in the middle of winter. Patton cringed. “Logan! Didn’t, uh, didn’t see you there.”

_ Obviously not. _ “You’re… early,” Logan carefully observed out loud, neither praising nor reprimanding the boy.

Patton could apparently hear his tutor’s unspoken question; his eyes flickered down to his hand, which rested in his lap. Logan followed Patton’s gaze to see a chocolate chip cookie — packed with an almost obscene amount of chocolate — in the boy’s grasp.

Sensing a follow-up question, Patton hurried to explain. “I looked up the library FAQ online and found out there aren’t actually any rules against eating in the library as long as I’m careful around the books. And since I’m not really reading any books anyway, that shouldn’t be a problem, heh. So because you said last time that you don’t care what I do as long as I’m on time, I figured that it’d maybe be best if I start… bringing my after-school snack to our sessions?” Patton paused, then added almost all in one breath, “But if there’s anything wrong with me doing that then that’s totally okay and I get it and I can stop if you need me to, or find some other way, like I could probably skip the snack or —”

“Actually,” interrupted Logan, “I think that this arrangement will work just fine.”

Patton blinked.

“…Wait, really?”

“Yes, really. As the library’s rules stated: provided you are cautious to not make a mess, if you believe this is the best way to maximize our efficiency, then please, be my guest. Though you could certainly stand to eat something a little healthier than that tooth-rotting cookie.” 

A huge grin broke out across Patton’s face, though it only lasted a split second before fading significantly. Logan noticed, but wasn’t sure whether he should acknowledge it or not. In the end, he took the safe route and said nothing.

Meanwhile, Patton was gushing away: “Thank you so much! I promise I’ll be really really careful not to drop any crumbs, and I’ll clean up after myself, and everything. You won’t even notice I’m eating.”

“Excellent. This shall be ideal.” Logan took a seat. “Now, you have plenty of time before our session to finish eating that cookie; I intend to spend that time either reading or preparing material for the lesson, so don’t expect to make small talk with me. However, if for whatever reason you haven’t finished when we begin, don’t fret. I am more than willing to let you eat while you learn.”

Patton couldn’t manage to hide his smile this time as he blurted out another _thank you._ Logan wasn’t entirely sure why Patton _had_ hidden said smile earlier, anyway; just because Logan tended to be quite stone-faced didn’t mean that he expected his student to be as well. 

In fact, Patton’s almost childlike excitement was, admittedly, a little bit contagious.

Logan turned away from his student to resume reading his novel. And though he would never admit it, if a passerby were right then to look in through the study room’s glass door, they might have noticed a slight quirk tugging at the corners of Logan’s lips; at first gentle, then stubborn, turning undeniably up — up — upwards.

***

One thing Logan certainly couldn’t deny was how unexpectedly successful the rest of their session turned out to be. The snack had worked wonders, it seemed. 

For one thing, Patton seemed to  _ really  _ have taken to heart Logan’s advice from Tuesday; the boy interrupted with questions so often that Logan might have been irritated if it weren’t for the fact that he’d specifically requested this. While yes, some of these questions tended to stray a little towards the simpler side (Patton made a point of asking for clarification on anything causing even the slightest bit of doubt), Logan had to admit he was impressed by his student’s determination. Not to mention, Patton’s questions never repeated — a sure sign that the boy wasn’t only listening, he was actively learning.

Perhaps the two of them had only gotten off to a rocky start.

“Thank you for your focus today, Patton,” said Logan as their session came to a close. “Your homework for Tuesday is to complete the next three pages of your review package. Now, I understand that your Shakespeare unit is beginning soon, correct?” At Patton’s nod, Logan continued: “Wonderful. We will begin studying  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream  _ next week to prepare you in advance, then.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Flipping his notebook shut, Logan was about to dismiss his student — but something stopped him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Patton deserved to know he had done well. So he said: “I am glad to see that your snacking solution has worked out for you, Patton.”  _ You impressed me today,  _ is what he meant to say. “You certainly could stand to bring something healthier next time, though,” is what he actually said.

Logan cringed.  _ And I certainly could stand to be a little less blunt. _

Fortunately, Patton didn’t seem to mind. “Sure thing, Logan.” A pause. “I’ll be going now,” he added, making no move to do so as he continued to stare at the blank wall just above Logan’s head. It seemed he was still processing all the information he’d taken in; the hard mental labor must have taken a lot out of him. 

And yet, despite being clearly exhausted, Patton was apparently feeling the positive effects of the unusually productive session just as much as (if not more than) Logan had. A kind of afterglow softened his features, lent warmth to an easy smile. Patton looked… happy. 

Now, to say that Logan “couldn’t look away” wouldn’t have been entirely accurate. He was quite sure that he could have managed if he had only tried.

But some deep-down instinct told him not to try, and Logan’s instincts had never led him wrong before.

After a few seconds of idly rotating back and forth in his wheeled chair, Patton spoke without warning. “This session was super helpful, Logan. I feel kinda like I’m finally getting all of this stuff for the first time in, well… ever.” Suddenly, Patton wasn’t looking at the wall anymore; his gaze was fixed directly on Logan. ( _ Have his eyes always been so blue?  _ Logan wondered.) “You’re a great teacher, you know. I can tell that you’ve worked hard to really  _ get _ what you’re talking about, and you always seem so interested. Kinda makes me wanna get it, too, if that makes sense?”

The sudden praise was unexpected, but even more unexpected yet was the intense rush of some kind of unnamable emotion that came with it, building up inside until Logan thought he might burst. It was only a simple, sincere compliment that Patton had given; nothing to get worked up over. So why…?

_ Sincere.  _ Maybe that was it. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was so convinced that Patton  _ was  _ being sincere, actually; there was just something about this drowsy, agreeable state that Patton was in right now. Stripped of both his rapid-fire energy and somewhat more protective walls, Logan felt like he was being privileged with a glimpse at what his student was like when unfiltered. 

There was the uncomfortable sense that he ought to  _ do  _ something with this information. The thing was, he had no idea what. Nor did he know what to do with the compliment, in fact. Should he thank Patton, or would that be unprofessional? But if he pretended not to hear it, Patton might get discouraged… 

Luckily, he was spared from needing to make the choice. Instead of waiting around to hear Logan’s response, Patton got to his feet with a drowsy stretch, seeming satisfied. He spoke over his shoulder: “See you next Tuesday, Logan.”

Hinges squeaked as the door swung shut. 

“Yes, I’ll see you then,” Logan said to no one in particular.

***

When Seth Berry came to pick up Logan at the end of the day, he couldn’t help but notice there’d been a distinct shift in his son’s attitude. Whereas Logan had been even more stiff than usual during the earlier ride to the library, the boy appeared almost dazed on the way back —  _ no, not dazed,  _ Logan’s pop corrected himself.  _ Awestruck. _

Seth knew better than to ask, though; experience had taught him that the fastest way to ruin one of these rare good moods was to interrupt Logan’s train of thought. Fortunately, he didn’t mind the quiet; Seth had always been less talkative than Logan’s dad.

Logan’s pop unbuckled his seat belt as their car pulled into the driveway. The sudden harsh  _ click  _ of plastic and metal made Logan stir. His son glanced over, seeming at last to be coming back down from among the clouds.

Seth gave a gentle smile. “Ready to go, bud?”

“Yeah.”

Inside the home of the Berrys, a brightly burning fireplace filled the halls with warmth and energy — a stark contrast to the January-white world outside, where the snow was already piled up past their ankles. Logan’s pop made a beeline straight for the kitchen table where Logan’s dad, Toby, sat, a bag of sunflower seeds before him and a bowl half-filled with discarded shells resting a little off to the side. Logan followed his pop over to greet his dad with a quick hug, then wandered off into the living room as Seth settled down next to Toby.

Settling himself comfortably into a practical brown loveseat, Logan laid his homework (efficiently organized and colour-coded) on the coffee table in front of him. A quick look over his to-do list told him today was his lucky day; besides a few short pages of textbook review for Science class, Logan was looking at a fairly work-free weekend. The notion made him feel more relaxed than he had in a good, long while. 

Leaning back into the soft cushions, Logan’s gaze was drawn to the soft snowflakes falling — no,  _ dancing _ — to the ground outside his living room window. Now was the season where all the little critters and flowering plants lay sound asleep beneath their blankets of white. Logan had always found the constant activity of the other seasons to be a bit too hectic for his tastes, but winter? Winter was tranquil. Calm. Cool, in more ways than one. 

(Logan looked around to make sure that no one was watching before allowing himself to smile at his own joke.)

It was aimless thoughts like these that had been wandering back and forth through Logan’s head all throughout the car ride home. On any other day, he’d have dismissed them as useless reverie, but there was something different about today. Some part of him had undergone an almost imperceptible change as he’d left the library, it seemed. And it was probably safe to assume this change was owed, at least in part, to Patton.

Embarrassed though he was to admit it, Patton’s casual compliment had caused Logan far more satisfaction than was reasonable. It wasn’t as if it was a rare occurrence for Logan to hear compliments of the same sort.  _ So smart _ , his teachers would say of him,  _ so gifted, so clever —  _ so  _ often _ that the words had long since lost their meaning. Besides, he didn’t work for shallow praise. He worked to learn, to grow, to become someone worthy of respect.

Perhaps that was it, in fact;  _ respect _ was what set Patton’s approval apart from the rest.  _ You’re a great teacher,  _ the boy had said. Not  _ smart  _ or  _ gifted  _ or anything like that. Rather than address Logan’s intellect like his teachers always tended to do, Patton had been acknowledging Logan  _ himself _ .

Which felt… nice. Nicer than Logan would care to admit.

A sudden movement outside his window caught Logan’s attention. He watched as the large apple tree in his backyard began to tremble and shake, the harsh winter wind picking up speed and bringing him back into the present moment. 

The boy looked away from the quivering branches and down at the open science textbook in his lap. Here he was, lost in his own thoughts again; he had to stop doing that when there was work to be done! 

Especially since his speculation had begun to teeter dangerously on the brink of something resembling feelings. Logan shuddered. Far safer to stay away from all that mess.

So Logan was glad to turn his attention to his homework. Science, he understood; hence, the textbook review proved perfect to distract him from that which he didn’t (a list that was starting to grow worryingly long today). 

Once that was complete, out came his new book. Logan curled up with his back resting against the armrest of the seat and his legs tucked up in front of him as he once again became engrossed in the story.

If peace could be a tangible thing, something that one might hold in their hands or wrap around their shoulders or scatter throughout their homes, Logan was sure that in that moment he should have had simply piles and piles of it — so much that he could give it away for pennies on the streets and never run out. The snow was falling, the fire roaring, his work was finished, tutoring was going so much better than he’d expected, and now his mind was millions of miles away in his book’s fictional world… 

All was well.

Just outside his living room window, snowflakes danced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! please don't hesitate to leave a comment if you enjoyed xoxo
> 
> ...oh, and did anyone figure out which book logan was reading in the second half of the chapter? guess correctly and you'll get a chocolate chip cookie ;P


	6. Swear That I Know This Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Virgil closes up the library for the night, one particular line keeps running through his head: "Familiar... why is this so familiar?"

_Under, loop, over, pull. Under, loop, over, pull. Fix the dropped stitch. Under, loop, over, pull…_

"Hey, it’s Virgil, right?”

Lowering his knitting needles, Virgil Xia looked up from behind his wooden librarian’s desk to see a familiar-looking boy walking towards him. “Yeah, hi. Can I help you?” _Do I know you?_

“Oh, it’s not important,” chirped the boy, absently adjusting a pair of round glasses. He shrugged. “I’m just curious about what you’re knitting. Is it a scarf or something?”

The question caught Virgil by surprise. He’d been hiding his project under his desk so that the sound of the needles clacking up against each other wouldn’t disturb the library’s patrons. _Am I still being too loud?_

“I’m… um, it’s a hat. Or, well, it’s trying to be.” Virgil glanced down at the flat, limp length of yarn in his hands, then back up at the boy. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That I was knitting,” Virgil clarified.

“Well, I saw you working on something when I came in earlier today.” The boy let a small yawn escape before continuing. “Making a hat… that’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to learn how to knit, but I never really got around to it. Where’d you pick that up?”

Virgil shifted uncomfortably. “Um…”

It was a hobby that he’d taken up near the end of his high school career; he’d accidentally wandered into the knitting club room one day while searching for a teacher, and the club members had been so excited to finally see a fresh face that he’d been too sheepish to admit his mistake. So he’d joined their group, learned to loop and purl and knot… and found that he enjoyed doing so a lot more than he’d ever expect to.

Over the next couple of months, knitting became somewhat of a refuge for Virgil. The repetitive motion was the perfect way to keep his fingers moving and his mind occupied. More than that, the simple patterns provided Virgil a way of orienting himself whenever his thoughts began to wander into dangerous territory — a sort of promise, they were, that no matter what happened, he could always count on the simplicity of his stitches to keep him grounded.

And it was all thanks to a chance high school encounter with a club that he’d originally been fully intending to quit after two days. Ironic. For once in his life, Virgil’s inability to speak up for himself had brought him something _good_.

…But Virgil didn’t want to tell this inquisitive boy all of that; it was a bit of an embarrassing story, and besides, the boy was just making polite conversation, wasn’t he? He didn’t _actually_ care enough to want to hear the whole thing.

“I learned in high school,” was all Virgil ended up saying. “They had a pretty nice club. We would get free snacks every once in a while. Like chips. Sometimes we got chips.”

 _Words,_ Virgil silently begged, _please stop coming out of my mouth._

The boy didn’t seem deterred by Virgil’s babbling, though. “That sounds like so much fun!” he said sincerely, eyes bright and smile even brighter. “Man, I wish Sandford SS had a knitting club. I _do_ love me some chips.”

It was only then that Virgil realized he recognised that smile — he’d seen the exact same one last week, hadn’t he? Virgil _did_ know this boy. He was the one being tutored by Logan Berry, another high school student and a regular library patron. He’d approached Virgil to ask for directions last week. Asked for Virgil’s name, then left his own name behind in exchange.

What was it again?

“Hold on, you’re… Patton, aren’t you?” Virgil recalled out loud.

The boy — Patton — perked up even more. “Yeah! Hey, I can’t believe you remembered!” he said, delighted.

“I thought I saw your tutor leave the library fifteen minutes ago. Are you still waiting for something, Patton?”

“Oh, just my mom. She’s coming to pick me up soon, but I guess she’s running a little late today. Kinda why I’m talking to you right now, actually. I thought that, since I’m stuck here anyway, I might as well get to know you a little better. You seem like a nice guy.”

 _Really?_ Virgil almost scoffed. A nice guy — him? _That’s new_. Purple hair, oversized jackets, piercings, and ripped skinny jeans usually tended to leave the opposite impression on most people.

Unsure how exactly to react, Virgil settled for a noncommittal _thanks_ before quickly changing the subject. “Hey,” he began, “you seem a little… I don’t know, worn out?”

“Yeah, who knew how draining sitting still and listening could be, right?” joked Patton, reaching under round frames to rub tired eyes. “I mean, I learned a lot today, but it’s _taken_ a lot out of me, too. I’m making progress, though. I think.”

“Logan’s been a good tutor, then?”

“Oh, for sure! Fantastic. He’s not exactly hard on the eyes, either.”

“Ye — hang on, what?” Not entirely sure he’d heard Patton correctly, Virgil tilted his head. “Could you, uh, repeat that last part?”

“I said he’s fantastic, and… and…” Patton trailed off, processing what had just happened.

A moment later, it clicked.

“...oh my gosh, did I just say that out loud?”

Virgil couldn’t stifle a snicker as Patton began to pale. “Sounds like you guys have had a pretty interesting first few sessions, huh?”

“No!” Frantic, Patton shook his head. “No, it’s — it’s not — that’s not what I meant —!”

“Uh- _huh.”_

“I—” Patton’s voice broke into a groan. “This is _so embarrassing.”_ He buried his face in his arms, a futile attempt to hide the blush rapidly spreading across his freckled cheeks. “Please don’t tell Logan I said that,” the boy begged. “He already hates me enough; I don’t even _want_ to imagine what would happen if he found out.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” said Virgil, still grinning. “So, d’you wanna change the subject, or…?”

_"Yes please.”_

Though the two didn’t talk for long, their conversation seemed to cover every subject imaginable. One second, they would be talking about why stars twinkle; the next, debating the pros and cons of stamp collecting. Patton was tired. Virgil was calm. Both were comfortable, and that was the beautiful thing.

This whole situation was a very rare one for Virgil, actually; he usually _hated_ small talk. But Patton was different. The boy had this openly friendly nature that made him remarkably easy to talk to, and he treated Virgil like they had been best friends for years despite how Virgil had barely even known his _name_ a matter of minutes ago.

To Virgil, a typical conversation felt almost like a sword fight. He had to watch his every step, every syllable, or he’d be impaled — head mounted on a spike before he could even blink. Too many times, he’d been having what he thought was a perfectly safe conversation with, say, his parents, but then he would say something he thought to be harmless and suddenly sparks would be flying from the clash of steel against cold steel. Or he might try complimenting a stranger and within the same second find himself up against a wall, no way to run from the razor-sharp blade probing at his throat in search of an ulterior motive he didn’t have. After so many unwelcome battles, Virgil had long since given up hope that any form of conversation could ever be anything but.

Until now. Talking to Patton was more like a… a dance, almost. A cozy kind of give and take, where even if Virgil stumbled, his dance partner was right there to provide support and guide him back into the rhythm.

It was a far safer interaction, this dance of theirs, and one that was rewarding just to be a part of.

Virgil was admittedly disappointed when Patton finally caught sight of his mother’s car pulling into the parking lot outside. He’d genuinely been enjoying Patton’s cheerful companionship, but once Patton had waved goodbye and walked out the library’s swinging glass doors, he found himself plunged into a silence as sudden as it was suffocating. It took a moment for him to re-orient, and then a moment longer to realize:

For the first time in… not forever, but something like that, Virgil was actually sorry to find himself alone.

In an attempt to escape the deafening silence, he picked up his knitting needles again to resume work on the not-quite-a-hat. _Maybe if I add another row, it’ll won’t look so much like a lump,_ Virgil pretended to believe.

The wooden needles clicked. It was a quiet sound, but the library was quieter.

***

“The library will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring any books you would like to check out to the front desk now. Thank you for visiting the Sandford Public Library today.”

Stretching, Virgil switched the microphone off, then packed his knitting needles carefully into his black burlap tote bag. He didn’t expect anyone would be left — not many Sandford citizens would want to spend their Friday evenings cooped up in a room full of books — but it couldn’t hurt to make the announcement just in case.

As it happened, his words didn’t quite fall on deaf ears after all; two young girls approached seconds later, their parents trailing behind them. One of them, skipping and humming a tune, had a set of fiery red ringlets framing her face. The other’s hair was dark and neatly braided, with a purple butterfly clip tucking her bangs away (though Virgil did notice one small black lock that had managed to escape). She seemed much shyer. Neither looked like they could have been more than seven years old.

“Mommy, I’m going to check this book out myself!” declared the redhead, looking fiercely determined as her tight curls bounced wildly.

The woman who Virgil assumed was the redheaded girl’s mother gave her a pat on the head. “Go right ahead, Miriam.”

Miriam puffed out her cheeks. “This is my bestest Super Duper Serious Big Kid Face, by the way,” she intoned. (Virgil could actually hear the capitalization on her words.) “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect, hun,” replied the woman indifferently. “Come on, let’s go. Your dad’s making pasta for us tonight, so we want to get home before it gets cold, okay?”

With a resolute nod, Miriam marched up to the desk where Virgil sat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to even be able to peer over the tabletop. Virgil had to hide a smile when Miriam spoke up in a voice at least an octave deeper than the one she’d used before.

“Hello, sir, excuse me, sir, I would like to check out these…” she trailed off and took a moment to count out loud before continuing, “…these eight books, sir, please, sir.” Virgil watched in amusement as Miriam struggled to get the books on the counter.

“Need any help there, love?” Miriam’s mother gently suggested.

Miriam gave a tiny but offended gasp. “No! I can do this myself!” Another painful three minutes passed before the girl finally succeeded in piling her eighth book neatly on the library desk. She turned to her mother, triumphant. “There, I telled you, didn’t I, mommy?”

Her mother sighed. “You sure did. Now come on, it’s time to give the nice librarian my library card. And it’s _told,_ not _telled,_ okay?”

Miriam obeyed, handing Virgil a thin plastic card. Virgil quickly checked out the books and made to load them into the library bag that Miriam held out, but the young girl snatched it away before he could get a single one in.

“I want to put them in the bag by myself… sir!” she insisted. “I can do it.”

Virgil only shrugged — it didn’t make any difference to him — and turned to help the next girl, who was clinging to the hem of her father’s shirt. Despite obvious fear, her father pushed her away. “Come on, Victoria, we don’t have all day,” he said. “You saw how brave Miriam was, right? If she could do that, you can too.”

Miriam turned to her shy friend as she finished stuffing the last book in her bag. “Yeah, Vi, come on! It’s not as scary as you think, I promise.”

“I…” Victoria trailed off, apparently still not convinced. The young girl shook her head tearfully and moved to make another grab at her father’s shirt.

But her father stepped back. “Victoria, hurry up.” He was getting impatient, Virgil could tell. “Go check out your books and let’s move it already.”

Virgil fidgeted uncomfortably. Though he knew that this was hardly his business, the whole interaction between Victoria and her father struck a chord with Virgil, and the uncomfortable familiarity was making him freak out a little. How much more of this he could bear, Virgil didn’t know.

On the other hand… he _hated_ confrontation. Yet, he really only had two choices: either speak up and possibly face the wrath of Victoria’s strict father, or stay quiet and just hope that things would work themselves out soon. Neither option held much appeal.

For better or for worse, Victoria ended up choosing the latter option for him when she finally gave in to the pressure and, arms trembling under the weight of her pile of books, slowly approached Virgil’s wooden desk. From the look on her face, she might as well have been approaching the den of a starving manticore-chimera. Virgil leaned over the table to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The second he showed his teeth, Victoria’s entire body stiffened.

 _Yikes,_ thought Virgil, hurriedly closing his mouth _. Am I really_ that _scary?_ He made a mental note to brush extra carefully that night.

But just as the poor girl appeared ready to scream, Miriam came running up. She unclipped Victoria’s butterfly barrette with a _tsk,_ tucked away the loose strands blocking her right eye, then at last grabbed her friend by the hand. “Vi, it’s gonna be okay. Okay? I got you. Look, once you’ve gived your books to the library guy, he’ll check ‘em out _so_ fast, and then we can go to my house and eat spaghetti together. My dad lets you put on as much cheese as you want!”

Virgil blinked. _Where did_ that _come from?_ It wasn’t until he caught sight of Victoria that he understood what was going on.

“…Yeah?” Victoria managed. “That sounds nice.”

“I know, right? Personably, I like to have lots and lots of cheese on my plate. One time, I made an entire mountain out of cheese! I called it Mount Cheddarest — you know, like Mount Everest? — which was actually very clever of me I think, and Mommy said it was the biggest cheese mountain she ever saw in her whole entire life, and…”

Virgil looked on, speechless, as Miriam’s steady stream of chatter managed to completely relax her formerly terrified friend, all the way up until Victoria released Miriam’s hand to make a beeline straight for Virgil’s desk. Before the girl could lose her nerve, Virgil quickly checked the books out and handed them back to her, marvelling all the while at the drastic transformation he’d just witnessed.

The shy smile he received in return felt awfully familiar. Before he could place it, though, the two girls disappeared as abruptly as they’d arrived; Miriam stayed in place only long enough to give Virgil a purposeful Super Duper Serious Big Kid Salute before barreling outside on a quest for cheesy pasta, Victoria and their parents following close behind.

The glass doors swung shut just as the clock ticked 7:00 precisely. With that, Virgil was alone again.

***

The commute back home was uneventful. As with any other day, Virgil boarded the first bus he could catch, where he sat and knitted and avoided eye contact all the way home. Thanks to the short daylight hours that had come with the snow, the street lamps were already shining bright all around J. M. Stokes College campus by the time they arrived.

Making sure to thank the driver as he disembarked, white snow crunched underfoot as Virgil began making his way back to the on-campus dorm room he called home. He shoved his hands in his pockets, watched his breath make little puffs of mist in the chilly air before fading into the darkness. From somewhere in the distance, the faint pulse of thumping party music could be heard resonating.

As Virgil passed under a maple tree, a cold wind picked up to rattle its now-leafless branches. With a shiver, Virgil pulled his handmade scarf even tighter around his neck and hurried onward.

By the time he caught sight of the golden lights glowing in the windows of his student residence, Virgil could barely feel his fingers. More than happy to at last shut the door on the wintry weather outside, Virgil paused in the first floor foyer to breathe deep before beginning the hike up the stairs to his room.

Once there, he paused again, this time panting. Between gasps, he silently cursed whoever invented stairs. Half the semester gone already, and yet he still wasn’t used to that awful, awful trek.

 _That’s it — first thing tomorrow, I’m hitting the gym,_ Virgil resolved (despite absolutely zero intentions of doing so). It wasn’t the first time he’d made such a resolution, and it surely wouldn’t be the last — but hey, it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?

When he’d recovered enough to walk again, Virgil gave the door a nudge and it swang wide open. Beyond his first few weeks of college, he’d never really bothered to lock it. Might as well make it easy as possible to break in, just in case any potential murderers decided to swing by in his sleep to put him out of his misery.

Virgil flipped the light switch on, laughing at his own joke.

...

_Yep, totally a joke._

Before the reader could question Virgil’s admittedly questionable method of using humour as a coping mechanism, he hurried to pull off his winter gear, exchanging heavy boots for a comfortable set of plastic slippers before plopping down on a rock-hard mattress.

Virgil tried for a little bounce. The bed didn’t shift an inch. If anything, it only hardened even further out of sheer spite alone.

A deep, brokenhearted sigh tore from the deepest chambers of his soul, hollow in such a way that only the truly shattered could understand. _One of these days I’ll replace this damn mattress,_ Virgil swore.

This, of course, was another fruitless resolution; said mattress had long since sunk its cruel claws in him. Any attempts to escape would surely end only in bloodshed and a minimum 50k of mutual belligerent sexual tension, to which neither he nor his mortal enemy would be made aware of until one particularly steamy brush with death or some equally life-changing experience revealed that the two of them cared for each other far more passionately than either would ever dare to admit, neither to the other nor themselves, at least for another 10k words of fighting by day and pining by night —

...What had he been talking about again?

Oh, right, the bed. Virgil hadn’t properly made his bed in days.

Messy bed aside: the single-room residence may have been tiny, but the privacy Virgil had now was more than enough to make up for the meager sizing. Frankly, he’d be happy living in a trash can like Oscar the Grouch as long as it meant getting away from his parents’ prying eyes. Besides, it wasn’t like he was planning to have guests over often (read: ever).

Virgil eased himself down onto the bed to gaze up at the wooden shelves above-head. Textbooks and and notebooks and novels he’d never gotten around to reading filled most of the first level. The second was much more interestingly adorned with all manner of trinkets: a few action figures from his childhood, a collection of particularly shiny pebbles or stones, some long-finished knitting projects, one empty picture frame that he’d bought on a whim but didn’t actually have any pictures to put inside.

The next shelf up held a few more notebooks, plus the most important item of them all: a striped flower pot that acted as both a bookend and a comfortable home for his pet cactus, Mister Cuddles.

Glowing down from the highest shelf was a miniature light box. Originally, there had been some cheesy inspirational message written into it: _LIVE LOVE LAUGH!,_ or _HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS,_ or maybe it had been _FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS._ Just your run-of-the-mill generic garbage. Virgil had been quick to change that to something much more intelligent and meaningful: _BLAH BLAH BLAH_ , with an upside-down V in place of one of the A’s, since Virgil had somehow managed to lose all but two immediately after purchasing the light box set.

Situated right above Virgil’s desk (comfortable, wooden, and somehow even more chaotic than the bed and bookshelves combined) was a large window that looked down into the street below. It was one of Virgil’s favourite things about the room. Whenever he needed to take break from his work, he would just gaze out the window, people-watching. Sometimes, he liked to try and guess little things about the students he saw based on what they were doing as they passed by. Were they typing something on their phone? Nodding along to music? Sprinting to catch a class they were late for? (That last one was pretty common.)

The opposite side of the room was pretty much empty, but for a large built-in cork board. He’d hung a monthly calendar on that board when he’d first moved in a full year ago, then had never bothered to put anything else up since. It just seemed a bit of a nuisance, not to mention much more trouble than it was worth — Virgil had somehow managed to stab himself with the pushpins three times before even getting the tiny calendar to stay put. So, for the most part, Virgil ignored the cork board.

Strewn all over the rough, off-white carpet were discarded clothes, some dating back to a month ago or more. Once, he’d decided that he ought to try to clean up the place, and he’d gone ahead and folded all of the T-shirts and jeans that he’d left scattered everywhere before getting distracted on Tumblr for an hour and a half. By the time he was finished, he’d completely lost his motivation and so decided to simply leave his articles of clothing folded on the floor where they already were, thinking to himself that he’d pick them up and put them away some other day. Needless to say, that day never came.

(Virgil didn’t much mind the mess, anyway. In fact, seeing everything all cluttered up sometimes even left him with this strange sense of empowerment — this was _his_ room, and he could organize it however he wanted to! There was no one around to force him to keep his desk clean or pick up after himself; _he_ decided when things got put away. Not his mother or father or anyone else. _Him._

Perhaps it was an odd thing to take comfort in, but… well, that was another thing about living on his own: no one was around to judge him for it.)

Finally, at the foot of the bed, a wicker basket sat, spilling over with balls of yarn in every size, texture, and colour imaginable. In that very basket could be found Virgil’s most prized possession of them all: his safety knitting.

Whether it was test stress, worry about work, uncertainty for the future, or just your run-of-the-mill general anxiety, Virgil coped with fear by trapping it tight into rows and rows of yarn.

Whenever he felt a storm brewing, he would wait until he had his safety knitting in his hands to let the rain fall — all his fears and insecurities running from rough jumbled thoughts down into rougher calloused hands, then flowing up the length of the knitting needles where he could visualize them weaving snugly between loops of soft yarn. He’d knit as many rows as he needed until his anxious brain bled dry, then seal it all off with still more stitches so nothing could break loose.

Maybe it was silly, but it _worked_ — whatever “it” was. He’d originally meant to knit the material into a particularly colourful scarf, but as time went on and the project showed no signs of slowing, Virgil had given up on that idea. _Maybe I could salvage it into a sweater if I unravelled some of the yarn…?_

An involuntary shudder immediately coursed through him at the thought. _Bad idea. I don’t even want to_ risk _setting any of that negativity free._

Perhaps a blanket then? Virgil did already use the scarf/sweater/unidentified knitted object as a sort of safety blanket every once in a while, anyway. On particularly bad days, when he couldn’t even muster the motivation to pick up his needles and knit, he’d simply grab hold of the homespun mass of mismatched yarn and wrap it comfortably around his shoulders, where he’d rub the material between thumb and forefinger to ground him until he was at peace again.

 _A blanket it is,_ Virgil decided. _I guess I’ll get around to straightening that thing out sometime._

Not today, though. He had work to do. Without even needing to stand up, Virgil slid from the mattress to his desk chair in one fluid motion (a skill he’d spent months perfecting), where he turned his attention to his homework. He did need a few minutes to get focused, but before long Virgil was typing away, engrossed in a steady workflow from which nothing could distract him.

...Well, almost nothing.

The moon was well risen, clearly suspended among dots of light in the inky night sky, when the first faint echoes of warm laughter began drifting up to his room to pull his attention away from the words he was writing. Virgil glanced out his window to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

With the streets mostly empty, it only took a moment to spot him. A handsome auburn-haired young man basked in the glow of a street lamp as he chatted amicably with three other people — friends of his, Virgil assumed.

He, like apparently everything else today, seemed familiar.

No, not just _seemed_ — this was by no means the first time he’d seen that same auburn hair around campus, Virgil immediately realized. Despite sharing no classes with the man standing outside his window, it would be hard not to recognize someone as unforgettable as him.

As Virgil looked on, the man laughed again, hearty and rich and with a smile that shone a million times brighter than the fluorescents above. The sound sparked in Virgil a flurry of unexpected emotion, most of it too muddled to put names to, but for one at the forefront of it all:

Desire.

Not desire for the glowing man himself, but for whatever was making him and his friends laugh so joyfully. Though he knew the conversation was none of his business, he couldn’t help but feel he was missing out on something — something great and big and beautiful. He wanted to join the fun, to hear the joke, to laugh until his cheeks ached and his breath came short and his veins buzzed with light from the street lamp above. Goodness, how long had it been since he had last laughed like that?

In particular, it was perhaps the man’s confidence that Virgil was most envious of. In all of the people-watching he had done in the past, never once had Virgil seen someone who appeared so comfortable in his own skin. The way he carried himself, the way he gestured while he talked, even the attentiveness with which he listened to his friends whenever one of them spoke up — everything about him screamed _fearless_ , and it drew in Virgil to the point where he simply couldn’t look away.

 _Wonder what it’d be like to be that happy._ The thought came without warning, darting unbidden into the forefront of Virgil’s consciousness and firmly planting itself there before he could blink. Startled, Virgil forced himself to snap out of it. _Wishful thinking won’t do me any good,_ he reminded himself.

Besides — better alone and content than among other people and still lonely, after all. Alone meant no one was around to criticize, nag at, or otherwise hurt him. Alone, he was finally free to be himself.

And if that meant trading away everything else… well, then so be it.

As Virgil returned his attention to the homework he’d been in the middle of grinding out, the young man tried his very best to ignore the fact that he’d long since lost sight of what “being himself” meant. _One problem at a time, right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i know it's another short one. unfortunately, the next one is going to be around the same length, too. 
> 
> that said, the chapter after that is currently sitting at over 10k words, so i mean...
> 
> (thanks again for reading -- it means so much!! if you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to leave a comment letting me know <3)


	7. Prince of Your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once upon a time in a far-off kingdom, there lay a small village at the edge of the woods..." So the story begins, as Roman’s heard repeated hundreds of times before. But every fairy tale must have its villain -- now, who could that possibly be?

Auburn.

That was the colour of Roman Foley’s hair, a lovely kind of cross between red and brown and gold and all the other warm and fiery tones in between. It was already quite a handsome colour during the daytime, but right now it looked positively gorgeous (a fact that certainly hadn’t escaped Roman’s notice). The warm light cascading downwards from the street lamp above Roman’s head gave the impression that there was a fiery halo of sorts framing his face, illuminating his features with an almost otherworldly glow. 

But of course, he wasn’t just standing around for the sake of looking good; he’d just wanted to be able to see his friends’ faces as he talked to them. Though it was biting cold out and Roman knew that he had a limited amount of time before he had to head to rehearsals, it was only a couple of minutes extra that Roman wanted to spend chatting — surely that would be okay. 

Besides, Roman’s best friend Kai Brenton was in the middle of the _funniest_ story, and Roman didn’t want to leave without finding out how it ended.

“…so then I told her, that’s not a weasel, that’s my sister!” finished Kai, a wide grin on his face. Roman laughed again, loudly. 

Not all of them found the punchline quite so amusing, though. On the other side of Roman, another of his friends spoke up between sips of green tea. “Uh, pause, pause, pause — you have a _sister?_ How come you never told us about her?” Remy Somnus asked.

“What? What made you think I had a sister?”

“That was the whole point of the joke, Rem,” said Elliot, elbowing his fraternal twin in the ribs. “Come on, were you even listening at _all?”_

Remy scoffed as he drained the last dregs of tea from his plastic Starbucks cup. “Okay, whatever, my bad. You know I love you, Kai, babes, but I had more important things on my mind.” He took careful aim before throwing the cup in a graceful arc through the air. It landed in the snow next to the trash can he’d been shooting for. “Dang.”

“Yeah, it’s chill. You know I don’t really care.” Kai gave his sassy friend first a shrug, then a punch on the shoulder.

“Ow! Hey, you _just_ said you don’t care!” protested Remy. Rubbing at his sore shoulder, he looked between Elliot and Kai. “What’s with all the violence today?”

“I meant that I don’t care about you not listening; _littering_ is a whole ‘nother story. Pick up your trash, moron. Mother Nature works hard to protect us. You’d probably have better aim if you weren’t wearing those sunglasses all the time, by the way.”

Remy did as he was told, jogging over to grab the cup… but not without protest. “Okay, seriously? Is no one gonna, like, ask me about what I was talking about just now?” Roman’s ever-sassy friend loudly complained over his shoulder in a mock-annoyed tone of voice. “Like, with the whole _more important things on my mind_ thing? I’m gonna be honest, I’m feeling a little unappreciated here.” Remy bent down to pick up the plastic cup, tossed it into the bin, and made his way back to the group. “But, you know, any of you could speak up right now. And make me feel _not_ unappreciated. It would be, like super easy to satisfy the curiosity that’s probably… burning inside of you right now. You just have to ask.” 

A pause. 

 _“Oh_ my _gosh,_ do I have to spell it out for you guys? Why do I even try? I don’t even know why I try. Seriously, all you’ve gotta do is say —” 

Fondly grinning, Roman interrupted his friend. “Hey, Remy, what were you talking about just now with the whole _more important things on your mind_ thing?”

 _“_ Aha — _there_ we go, _thank_ you!” Remy glared at Elliot and Kai. “See, guys, this is why Roman is, like, a hundred times better than all of you combined.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, Roman mumbled, “Sometimes I feel like you’re even more dramatic than I am, Remy.”

“No way _anyone_ could ever be more dramatic than you, hun,” quietly shot back Remy before he cleared his throat to address all three of them. “I’m _so_ glad you asked. See, the thing is, you ladies have all been acting real stressed out lately, about school or work or home stuff or whatever, and TBH it’s really stressing _me_ out too. You _know_ we can’t have that. Stress makes you wrinkle up. So I took it upon myself to head down to my favourite club, the good ol’ Lemon Lime Loophole, and I rented out a private karaoke room for us four.“ As Remy spoke, Roman watched both Kai and Elliot perk up with delight. Remy continued, “Just a fun night out to relax and unwind. Dear Britney _Spears_ knows it’s been too long since our last karaoke night, and you all obviously _really_ need it.”

“Hang on, did you actually?” exclaimed Elliot, eyes gleaming. 

“Remy, that’s perfect!” Next to him, Kai bounced gleefully up and down. “Aah, this is gonna be so much fun!”

“I know, I know, I’m the best. Say _thank you, Remy…”_

 _“Thank you, Remy!”_ Kai and Elliot chorused like little children, almost in perfect unison with each other, before returning to their enthusiastic babbling, faster and louder until they were almost tripping over every word before flying to the next. 

Roman, in the meantime, said nothing at all.

But none of his friends noticed Roman’s uncharacteristic silence: Kai and Elliot were already enthusiastically working out a list of songs they wanted to get through before the end of the evening, and Remy was busy soaking in the praise, obviously pleased with himself and the positive response to his brilliant idea.

After preening for another moment or two, Remy said, “Come on, let’s hurry. We’ve got twenty minutes to get there or they’ll give away our reservation to someone else. I’ll drive, cool?” 

That was when Roman finally spoke up. “Guys…” he began. “I’d love to come along — really, I would. But I have a rehearsal today, remember? For _Into the Woods_. You didn’t forget, did you?” He was dismayed to see the joy in his three friends’ faces immediately fizzle out.

“…Well, damn,” mumbled an uncharacteristically spiritless Remy at last. “I _did_ forget. Sorry, Roman.”

( _Yeah,_ thought Roman — though of course he didn’t say anything out loud — _I kind of figured as much.)_

“Maybe — maybe we can reschedule!” It was Kai this time, trying (and failing) to hide his disappointment. “We’ll find another time when we can all go together.”

“Wait, what? No! No, that’s not what I’m saying at all!” Roman spluttered in surprise. “No, you guys can totally go ahead. Don’t let me stop you! I mean, yes, I wish I could be there with you, but just because I’m not coming doesn’t mean you have to give up on this, too.”

“But… I don’t want you to feel bad about missing out.”

“Honestly, it would just make me feel way worse if I knew that you skipped out on your karaoke night just to make me feel better.”

Elliot hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, positive!” Roman said, much more confidently than he felt. He forced a smile. Showing any kind of weakness or doubt was out of the question; he had to convince Remy, Elliot and Kai that it really was okay for them to go ahead without him, and the only way he was sure he could convince them was by convincing himself of the same thing. It was undeniably easy to tell how much his friends wanted to do this. Roman was determined not to let his own scheduling conflict stop them. “Go on, go have fun. Just promise me you’ll do something from _Hamilton_ for me, okay?”

“...Okay,” Kai finally agreed after a long pause. “Thanks, Roman.”

“And Remy has to be Peggy.”

“Hey — what? _Hell_ no!” 

“Relax, Rem, I was kidding! Agh! Don’t hurt me!”

***

_“I must have her —”_

Prince Charming paused dramatically, taking a deep breath before raising his chin and hardening his features into a resolute mask —

_“— to wife…“_

Holding the ending note (a high one, for sure, but nothing that he couldn’t handle), Prince Charming stood from the painted drama box he’d been sitting on and crossed the stage to meet up with the Other Prince. One strong and rich, the other clear and sweet, their voices together formed a beautiful blend to fill every square inch of previously empty space in the rehearsal room.

Prince Charming made eye contact with his scene partner a beat before the music cut off. He grinned. The Other Prince grinned back.

A second of silence.

And then the scene was over, and Prince Charming was Roman and the Other Prince was Kyle again, and the silence was broken by the sound of sparse applause from a handful of the other cast members who had been watching the duet play out. It wasn’t the first time that they had gone through the song without any mistakes or silly little slip-ups, but it _was_ the first time that the entire _scene_ had gone off without a hitch. Both Princes had followed their blocking to a T and not once had either of them needed to call for _line._ The scene had come together perfectly, and both of them knew it.

So, apparently, did his director, Adri. Satisfaction was clear to be seen on her glowing face as she joined in on the scattered applause. “Excellent work, Roman, Kyle! You’ve still got to pay attention to your volume and make sure you’re not pushing the tempo of the song too much, but otherwise, that was flawless. Keep up the good work.” She turned to address the rest of the room. “Alright, folks, that’s the last of our scene-by-scene work for the day. Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water. We’ll take five and then run the show from the top, so you’re all going to want to be well-hydrated.” 

The room leapt to life the second she finished speaking. Roman and Kyle shared a quick high-five before making their way offstage, chatting all the way.

“Awesome job, Roman!” said Kyle encouragingly.

“Oh, thank you so much! Right back at you, of course. This scene is going to turn out marvellously, I can just feel it.”

Kyle nodded, cheerful. “Well, I could go for a cup of coffee. Want anything?”

“Coffee?” Roman raised his eyebrows. "At half past nine? Kyle, it’s been dark out for at least two hours already. How do you expect to get any sleep tonight if you drink coffee now?”

“Ehh… I guess you’re right. Maybe I’ll just get bubble tea or something instead.”

“Boba’s good.” Roman said with a nod. “Just make sure you’re back before break’s over or Adri might bite your head off.”

“Heh, yeah — wait, you’re not coming with?”

“No, I think I’ll hang back. Go over the script a few more times before we start, you know? And maybe get some notes from Adri while I’m at it.”

“Gotcha. No worries. See you soon, man.” Kyle grabbed his coat and stepped out with a wave goodbye. Roman wandered over to his backpack to grab a drink of water. Then, he pulled out a granola bar and, munching on the healthy snack, he began flipping through the pages of his script. He was checking for any issues, anything that might get in the way of a flawless performance (he would settle for nothing less), making sure he hadn’t forgotten any of the blocking or any lines since the last time they’d run the show all the way. As expected, though, Roman’s careful search turned out to be unnecessary. 

Which was great, except now he had nothing to do; he’d realized only after getting to rehearsal that he’d left his laptop at home by accident, meaning he couldn’t spend his break finishing up any schoolwork like he would typically do. Roman reached for his bag, put away his script. Without anything to keep him busy, it wasn’t long before his mind began freely wandering. His imagination took him anywhere and everywhere and nowhere in particular all at once — then suddenly made a crash landing somewhere familiar: a private karaoke room within the walls of the Lemon Lime Loophole night club. 

Roman still couldn’t help but feel guilty for turning down Remy’s kind offer. His three friends had seemed so disappointed when he’d said that he couldn’t go with them, but it couldn’t be helped; he’d made the commitment to attend rehearsals and he had to see it through.

But, well… to be completely honest, Roman may not have agreed to go with the three of them even if he hadn’t had rehearsal that day. Not because he didn’t want to, or because he didn’t think that karaoke with his friends would be a fun time — Roman was sure that if he _had_ gone with his friends to the Lemon Lime tonight, he would have ended up having the time of his life singing crazy show tunes or Disney songs with them.  

There was just one problem: _what would Monet think?_ If the simple act of convincing his boyfriend to let him visit home every other weekend made Roman feel like he was walking on fragile eggshells, then trying to schedule a time and place to hang out with his friends was like — like strapping on ice skates with working chainsaws in place of blades and dancing a complex, fast-paced jig on top of those same eggshells. 

It would often end up taking days or sometimes even weeks of careful negotiations before Monet was willing to let Roman go anywhere without being by his side at all times. And even then, there were still rules that Roman had to follow: _no flirting, be home by_ x _o’clock, no more than four drinks, if anyone tries to hit on you then leave immediately, don’t show too much skin when you go out, send me a text and a photo every hour…_ All reasonable requests, and Roman could certainly understand where his boyfriend was coming from, but the fact remained that they were rules nonetheless. Sometimes it felt like the list never stopped growing.

It didn’t help that the three people who made up Roman’s closest circle of friends were all attractive young men the same age as Roman, either. Though Roman was being completely honest when he told Monet that all of them were only friends, Kai, Elliot, and Remy _were_ undeniably handsome and there was, of course, never a dull moment with them around. 

It was easy to see why Monet, committed as he was to their relationship, might get a little bit distressed over how often Roman was hanging around the three of them. In fact, when Roman looked at the situation from his boyfriend’s point of view, he realized that Monet was already being generous enough, letting Roman spend as much time as he did with his group of friends. It wasn’t fair of Roman to ask for even more. And yet Monet was still willing to give it to him, under the right circumstances. 

Roman sighed. _That boy really is incredible._

So though a night of karaoke with his friends was a pleasant thought in theory, Roman had known the second Remy extended the invitation that there was no way he’d be able to go. Really, he was grateful for the schedule conflict between Remy’s reservation and his rehearsal. Explaining that he couldn’t go because of a prior commitment was so much easier than explaining that he couldn’t go because his boyfriend wouldn’t like it; that latter option made Monet sound like a cruelly controlling criminal, which he _wasn’t —_ but though Roman understood Monet’s motives perfectly well on his own, he had found that he always ran into difficulty when he tried to explain them to other people…

Two sharp claps interrupted Roman’s train of thought. A quick glance at the clock on the wall revealed that his break was over. Just as well; Roman’s spirits were starting to sag a little, thinking about the karaoke he was missing out on. But there was plenty of singing to do here at rehearsal, wasn’t there?

Roman rose to his feet, tossed the granola bar wrapper into the trash, and did some quick warm-ups to ensure he was fully prepared; a few brief stretches, a vocal sigh, one or two quiet tongue twisters. He finished up and turned just in time to greet Kyle, who was rushing in with a half-finished plastic cup of bubble tea in his hands. The sight immediately reminded Roman of Remy’s antics with a similar plastic cup earlier that day, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. _Stop thinking about them,_ he ordered himself. _It’s rehearsal time. Focus!_

“Kyle, just in time,” Roman greeted with a smile.

Kyle put his drink in a safe place where it wouldn’t spill over and made eye contact with Roman. He didn’t smile back this time. “Who’s Kyle?”  

“Oh. Right, my bad.”

Kyle — pardon, the _Other Prince_ — was apparently in character already. Perhaps Roman ought to be doing the same.

Roman breathed in, deeply, drawing as much oxygen into his diaphragm as he could, and let his eyelids flutter gently shut. Then, he slowly released the air from his lungs, and released all the bits and pieces of “Roman” with it.

While the young man melted away, the music began. Light, crystalline, clear, bouncing. Then, gently, came the singing: 

_“I wish —”_

_“More than anything —”_

By the time the young man opened his eyes again, Roman had dissolved into the background, no more than a ghost fluttering between steady, rhythmic pulses. 

_“More than life —”_

_“More than jewels —”_

And in his place, standing where Roman had once stood: a perfect Prince Charming.

_“I wish…”_

***

Roman was so tired by the time he got back to his and Monet’s house that evening, he ended up collapsing on the couch only seconds after he’d finished hanging up his thick winter coat. Stretching, Roman let out a huge yawn. The rest of his rehearsal had gone just fine, but the single granola bar he had packed for himself hadn’t been completely sufficient to keep his energy levels up. After all of the jumping around and running back and forth and vocal work, the drive home that day had been a long one.

Hearing Monet shuffling up behind him, Roman turned around. He watched Monet take in Roman’s state of being for a brief handful of seconds, then Roman’s boyfriend gave Roman a small smile and sat down next to him on the couch.

“Hey there, Prince Charming. Long day, huh?” 

Roman let another yawn, somehow even bigger than the last, escape. That was answer enough.

“Oh, you poor thing, you must be completely worn out.” Monet shook his head as he wrapped a protective arm around Roman, pulling him close. “I’m so proud of you, Princey. You’ve been working so hard on this show of yours! I’d bet you anything that when show week begins, you’re going to be the best actor on the stage.” 

Roman snuggled up against his boyfriend’s shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. _Hot chocolate on a cold winter day._ "Heh. You’re just saying that.”

“No, I mean it. You’re crazy good, Ro,” Monet insisted. “You’re definitely going to become a world-famous actor some day, I’m sure of it. And then every time I see that cute face of yours plastered on a billboard or magazine cover or something, I can point and say, ‘You see that guy? Roman Foley, the bright shining superstar? He’s my _boyfriend,_ you know.’ Everyone’s going to be so jealous of me.”

“I, uh…” 

For some reason, Monet’s usually welcome compliments left Roman feeling a little hollow inside today. _But I suppose it’s the thought that counts._

Luckily, though Roman was tired, he wasn’t so out of power that he couldn’t even act out some enthusiasm for Monet’s sake.

“...appreciate that,” he eventually settled for, giving Monet a quick peck on the cheek before returning his head to its resting position. “You’re always too good to me, you know.”

Roman felt his boyfriend’s shoulder shake a little bit as Monet chuckled. “Oh, trust me — I know.”

With that, the two of them were back to cuddling. It was nice, but Roman couldn’t help but feel like he should be saying something.

“You _are_ coming to watch the performance, right?” he eventually settled on.

Roman couldn’t see his face, but he could tell from his tone of voice that Monet was smiling. “Of course I’m coming to watch the performance. I promised I would, didn’t I? Trust me, Ro, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Then, all of a sudden, Roman’s head hit the couch cushions. Monet had stood up without warning and was now watching Roman expectantly. 

With a considerable amount of effort, Roman pushed himself back up to a sitting position, grumbling. “Come baaaack... I was comfortable!” he whined. “Don’t just abandon me here, Monet.”

“It’s getting late, and you’re tired. I wasn’t about to let you fall asleep on top of me. You’d have woken up cramped and sore all over.” Monet reached out and grabbed Roman’s hand. “Come on, sleepy head, let’s get you to up the stairs and into bed.” Ignoring Roman’s further protests, Monet pulled him to his feet. 

Roman swayed in place for a moment before heavily settling back down onto the couch. “Nuh-uh, not moving. Couch soft.”

“The bed’s softer, silly. I already said, you’ll be sore in the morning if you sleep down here. Let’s go.”

Hearing a note of impatience in his boyfriend’s tone, Roman gave a small groan, but got up just like Monet asked. He leaned on Monet all the way over to their staircase, at which point Monet remembered an unfinished assignment and left Roman to fend for himself. So Roman climbed up the stairs and got ready for bed on his own, all the while swearing he could hear scattered notes and lyrics from _Into the Woods_ still bouncing sluggishly from ear to tired ear:

 _It takes two_ . _I thought one was enough, it’s not true_ — _it takes two of us_.

Humming the song’s simple melody, Roman slid with a contented sigh under the soft gold and red covers of the double bed that he and Monet shared. 

( _You came through —_ _when the journey was rough, it took you — it took two of us.)_

Monet had been totally right, just like he always was. The bed _was_ way softer.

( _It takes care — it takes patience and fear and despair —_ _to change.)_

But something was distinctly missing: the warmth of another person beside him. 

 _(Though you swear to change, who can tell if you do?)_  

Tired though he was, Roman always felt so small when he lay all alone in their large bed. Even as he drifted off, he found himself wishing for someone to lie there next to him.

_(It takes two.)_


End file.
